Pocket Mirror

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 

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