In the Mirror

The sweet pink of the tights swallows any shade of skin, painted on comically.
The pure black destroys any previous idea of shape,
creating for itself new curves and dynamics.
Locks of curly hair have been pulled back, tied tightly into a sleek knot, and plastered in sprays and glues.
A new face has been painted on, paler, with dangerous angles.
The pink slippers are tied, lacing their way up the legs like snakes,
twisting in their concentric circles.

I have no idea who this girl is,
or what business entreats her to stand inside the mirror.
But she cannot possibly be me.
She holds an air of grace I do not possess.
Reflections tempt with the dangerous option to pretend to be anything but who we are, yet she seems so familiar.
She cannot possibly be me. I am short, I am childish, I am clumsy.
She is graceful, powerful, and her eyes hold a dangerous fire.
She glares at me, and I lean closer to stare back. I can see her foot slip before I feel it.
Her form shatters, and she crashes to the ground. The pain shoots up from my legs, crumpled beneath me. Clumsy now, disheveled on the floor. And there I am.