I press into the mirror, but there’s a gap between my fingertip and its reflection. I guess it’s the glass covering the polished silver-skin, like a window between me and the otherside. Invisible, impenetrable. Ignorable and imminent.
I heard if you saw yourself on the street, you wouldn’t recognize the bend of your jaw, the curve of your lip, or the pinched corner of your eyes. The images we know as ourselves are reversals of what everyone else sees. I am unrecognizable to myself from the perspective of others, yet I am alien to them through my own eyes.
It’s hard to say whose version of me is right, but I’m betting on theirs. You think I would pick mine. I live in my head, afterall. But then again, maybe theirs is correct precisely because they don’t live in the house of mirrors I’ve boxed myself within.
I press into the mirror, fingerprint pad flat, nail bed turning purple like the inside of a mussel shell, but the gap is still immovable. There’s an unbridgeable distance between who I am and who I know myself as. I just can’t put my finger on it.