Two faces of a coin.

My reflection does not approve of me.

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I go by the mirror and avert my eyes. I can't stare myself in the face. It's not like all the pictures. those eyes are dead eyes, frozen in time. These eyes are live eyes and glitter like water. Or glass over mud.

I can look myself in the eye, but it's like looking into another part of another soul and having questions asked and my mind read. Looking into my eyes is having to face the person who ruined lives for nearly half a decade, and still can't seem to stop. Looking into my eyes is having to stare down a mistake in identity I never imagined I'd become. Looking into my eyes... That's being judged by the self I'd always imagined I could become, the self my parents think I've become, the self that idiots dare to trust and idolize.

But they are misled, mistaken by the surface tension. they don't read the current under it all, and they don't see the lack of humanity. Or the fouled attempts to rebecome one of them.

I never give my heart halfway and when life first said "fuck you" I fucked it back and jumped off the ledge, trusting sheer insanity to confuse Fate long enough for me to get away.

It hasn't failed me yet.

But lurking inside, there's that possibility -

And even though I'd fuck the hottest girl in the school, I still think I'd have to do it with the lights out so I won't see myself in her eyes. So there won't be my own face there, making accusations about this life and carrying the stony silence of judgment over heavy breathing and high sighs.

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He says he can't look himself in the eyes, like there's something hidden deep in there that he can read. he always look like he is on the verge of tears when he's so near the edge I can feel his body trembling so fast it's not visible.

And he still says he's used to fucking with the lights off, so I guess the fact that he's never reached for the lamp I leave on is a good thing.

I've always been able to see his face and his eyes.

Those eyes of his are gorgeous. They terrify me, but it's a fear I embrace in the hopes that one day I'll learn not to fear.

That one night I was over him, I made myself meet his eyes. I always look in the eyes when I speak, but never when I fuck. And still his eyes terrify me enough to forget myself. To be in the moment.

I've learned to love the moment. Except when his eyes are dark enough that my reflection appears and it's one of those times when I want to look away, or better yet, shake him until he tells me exactly what he can call beautiful about this body he's laid claim to.

All possessive, self-inflicted rituals aside... There is nothing for him here. And yet he remains. I wonder how I am so lucky.

Then his eyes fill with that undefinable emotion, right under the tears, and as my heart aches, I wonder how I am so cursed.