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- The steel is cold and sure in her hands,
A line so sleek, so perfect,
No trembling, no excess,
No curve out of place. She looks at her legs,
Too thick, too wide,
The mirror echoes the taunts,
Every inch a burden. The gun is a whisper,
A promise of something else—
Something sharp and slender,
Something that doesn’t ache. She wonders if she could carve herself clean,
Like the barrel,
Smooth and gleaming,
No more heaviness,
No more shame. But her finger hovers,
Unsteady as her breath,
And she wonders, too,
If maybe, just maybe,
There’s a place for softness in this world. - A place where curves hold power,
Where round is still beautiful,
Where she could hold herself gently
And not wish for something else. The gun is silent,
A secret she holds,
But the mirror,
For once,
Stays quiet, too.
SILENT REFLECTIONS (poem)
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