Some poems begin with an idea.
Others begin with a feeling.
This poem began with a moment of recognition.
The kind of moment that arrives unexpectedly.
A glance in a mirror.
A reflection held a little too long.
A sudden awareness that the person staring back at you doesn’t feel entirely familiar.
The opening of the poem focuses on appearance.
The speaker puts on makeup, chooses a dress, styles her hair, and prepares herself to be seen.
On the surface, these are ordinary actions.
But beneath them lies a deeper question.
How much of what we present to the world belongs to us, and how much belongs to the expectations of other people?
The speaker slowly realises she has become the version of herself that someone else preferred.
A version shaped by approval, expectation, and compromise.
Then comes the turning point:
“I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw.”
Not because the reflection is ugly.
Not because the reflection is damaged.
But because it no longer feels authentic.
That moment of recognition opens a door.
Everything that has been buried begins to stir.
The second half of the poem moves away from appearance and into the body.
The speaker feels it in her skin, her throat, her chest, and her thoughts.
Old emotions rise to the surface.
Memories long buried begin demanding attention.
The body reacts before the mind can fully understand what is happening.
That experience is familiar to many people who have lived through trauma, grief, anxiety, coercive control, or emotional suppression.
Sometimes the body recognises the truth before the mind is ready to accept it.
The poem never tells the reader exactly what is coming.
It simply presents the warning signs.
The tightening chest.
The trembling skin.
The gathering shadows at the edge of thought.
The feeling that something long ignored is finally demanding to be seen.
For me, this poem is about more than fear.
It is about recognition.
The moment we stop looking away.
The moment we see ourselves honestly.
The moment buried truths begin to surface.
Because sometimes the most frightening thing is not the storm itself.
It is realising the storm has been inside us all along.
Thank you for reading
Your DislexicPoet 🖤
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