It came through the letterbox.
From him, when he died, to me.
A pocket mirror.
I opened it.
I screamed and sobbed.
Engraved, “To Jen… love, from Dad”
Even when it’s closed, I can
See the reflection
Of his hideous daughter who ran
But couldn’t keep up.
Why did he shout at me so?
Why was nothing good enough?
What did I do wrong?
I never really felt loved.
He had his reasons
Look at me! I’m just
A dirty, patchwork rag doll
Retarded, a slave to
Love unloved, nothing
I do is good enough.
At every angle, it mocks
Me. I can’t look anymore.
In its box, it’s locked
Somewhere dark and out of sight.
What’ll haunt me is:
It’s not his face I see in the mirror
It’s mine.
[Jen Hughes]
Image Credit: Imogen Whiteley and Nour El-Issa
qmunicatemagazine.com 