Savannah Watson

I look around in the room of mirrors, every mirror a normal mirror, and I see a different version of myself in each.

In the mirror with the ornate gold detailing, I am beautiful. In a square, silver mirror, I am not. In an old mirror with peeling paint, my face is lined with age, smile lines, crow’s feet, and worry lines between my eyebrows. In one rectangular mirror, I am too short, and in another, I’m too tall. In a cracked mirror, I am cracked, scars lining my skin. In a round mirror, I see myself overweight, and in a thin mirror, I see myself skeletal. In still other mirrors, my hair is too curly, too straight, too long, too short; my eyes are too round, too small, too green, too brown; my nose is too small or too large, while my teeth are too straight or too crooked.

I am captivated by these different versions of myself, dissecting every piece of my reflection, but the longer I look at these versions of myself, the more I forget which one is the real one.

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