I sit on her dresser, slouched against the light.
My eight sides form the octagonal shape she uses
to stick on her false lashes; to sculpt her black eyeliner
to tweeze her eyebrows, and conceal her eye bags;
overanalyze her face,
like how one eye (the left eye) is slightly
tilted
downwards
creating unbalance.
I stare into her room, reflecting the wood paneled walls
and the forest green colored comforter.
I stare at her, sitting on her bed, legs crossed
as she twirls her long black hair between her pale
frail fingers, waiting for
nothing
waiting for the moment when everything will
Burn.
She pulls out the antique wooden chair,
her grandmother’s chair,
and sits down at the dresser.
She looks into her eyes.
She looks into my eyes.
We stare at each other, and I reflect her
wishing I could tell her
I love the way your freckles sprinkle your cheeks
and you should too.
I love how the green in your eyes emerges when you look at the light
and you should too.
I love the uniqueness of your left eye, slightly tilted downward
and you should too.
One day, you will find someone who notices your downward tilted left eye
and they will love you for it.
and you should too.
But instead, I just sit on her dresser, propped up against the light,
my eight sides forming the octagonal shape
that can only reflect
Her reality.