I wanted to prove

That I could do it,
But we all knew
It was a false hope.
Many days, I just
Tolerate myself.
I am 13, standing 
In front of my bedroom
Mirror, clad in pink
And lace. I cry,
And my mother asks me
If there’s something I need
To tell her. No, that’s not it—
I’m 17 now, begging to keep
My glasses on, so I can at least
See the gold accents on my sleeves,
And the face I don’t recognize,
Painted in shades of brown
And blush. Now 20, a never
Ending art project, clay to be
Carved and discarded. At night
I cover the mirrors in my room
To ward off the ghosts
Of my same self, who has never
Liked what she saw.