Funhouse Mirrors by Megan Diedricks


Funhouse Mirrors

Scratches on the mirror are a daily assault –

cracked is the glass, and my temple is at fault.

I turn in circles, and the exit escapes.

I see red and follow the scrapes:

the mob encloses around me –

eyes blistering in what they see.

Within my head rattles a bouquet of hammers;

my thoughts get lost in the thorny maze and the image stammers:

my hair feels of rough grass,

my eyes tell tales of crumbling brass,

my stomach curls into and reminds of a lump,

my lips will never be as plump,

my figure is not supple

and in the reflection I will never see a couple.

Why am I not feminine like her?

The explosion continues to stir,

until my eyes meet the mirror again:

I never untangle myself from the cobwebs clinging

to my body – there, where the devils are always singing

my flaws.

Imprinted on my skin are the outlines of claws:

I simply fall to the surface

and drown before a furnace. –

Any mirror is bound to resemble

a funhouse reflection if you're prone to dissemble

your parts by staring into a looking-glass

where the only stories you ever read are that of crumbling brass.


Megan Diedericks's debut poetry collection, “The darkest of times, the darkest of thoughts” is available on Amazon. She lives in South Africa. When she’s not writing, she’s living in worlds of fiction with background music to match. Find her on and on IG @megandiederickspoetry


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