Faces: Redux.

I made some changes to this piece to fit the prompt for an English assignment. There are things I like about the new one, but I think overall I prefer the original. Feel free to let me know what you think.


Sometimes, when the mirror peers back at me from far away, I see hollowness. I focus on the shadows under my cheekbones, the purple bags under my eyes, the cuts and scrapes and bruises across my cheeks and forehead. I see my scars. I wince at a pale reflection and eyes too wide for a small visage. I strike myself as a lost child.

But sometimes, when I get closer, I perceive things better. I recognize the familiar freckles dotting my nose, the even tone across my cheeks, the black flecks in my eyes that give them the appearance of depth. I notice thick black lashes that don’t need mascara. I see the red flush of blood protecting my face from the chill air. I straighten at the sight of a teenage girl, a member of a pack, just like any other.

Sometimes, I wonder how many faces I have. I wonder which face is my real face, or if they’re both mirages. I wonder which face my best friend sees, and which face the cashier at the grocery store sees, and I wonder if they’re the same. I wonder if the snickering I hear is about me, if the gazes weighing heavily from behind are malevolent or benign, or even just a figment of my imagination, echoes of fear resounding in my mind. I wonder if the days I deem myself acceptable are the days that the world finds me acceptable as well, or if we all have opposing opinions on what I should look like.

Sometimes, I wonder if my face even matters—if what I see and what everyone else sees makes a difference. I wonder if people appraise me at face value, or if they wonder what thoughts lay beneath my skull. I wonder if I appear twelve, like they tease me that I do, or if I give the impression that I’m twenty, like they assume I am before they see my face.

Sometimes, I think that all of my faces are truly just one, and that it’s not my face being altered, but my mind.