BODY IMAGE Poem: I’m Scared of my Golden Scales, by Christina Ogden

The paper bird I’d created fell from my hands, dissipating into the water.
The black dye in the pulp clouded the silver mirror.
Swimming to the surface, Golden light erupted from her eyes.

Quietly, her gaze told me to follow her, so I stuck one hand in her eyes
my face followed after, and my lungs filled with her honeyed water.
If I breathed too quickly, my throat would be filled with a solid mirror.

I breathed slowly, looking at all the bird showed me in the water,
watching my hands turn into coral, pink and yellow reflected in the mirror.
I wondered how she would see my new hands, would they be pretty in her eyes?

I looked back up, searching for her, but in her place was a fish the same gold as her eyes.
Her billowing tail followed behind her like a cape, heavy behind her in the water.
My face turned pink, laid before my coral hands, I was also scared of the mirror.

I grew jealous of her graceful flow, loudly announcing her gait in the water.
She turned to me and blinked, I never knew a gilded fish could close her eyes.
I wondered what she saw, my tough coral cheeks ate at the mirror.

The colors in my hands reflected her scales, the pink and gold floated up in the water.
Were we really the same two people, making sure our eyes didn’t look into our mirror?
I wanted to hug her, just how long had she been lying to her eyes?