The Number of Mirrors – A Poem

I

am convinced

that when I

was sculpted out of

the clay that is my

body, mirrors were sprinkled liberally within

the darkness of myself, until the bits

of silver came to the surface of who 

I was. Often, I find myself wondering if the

artist who made me has been trying to communicate with

me all this time in morose code. While I’ve

been so busy picking out all my imperfections,

the artist was trying to tell me

that I was beautiful. After all,

they had given me a

mirror so that I

could see myself

completely and

shine.