Mirror Talk

Be yourself
if you want to kill all demons
inside your head.
My therapist advises.
Talk to yourself
in the mirror.

I look at my reflection,
its mouth opens,
wanting to start before me.
But the voice is not mine.
Yes. You heard it right.
I am Miryam.
The pretty village girl
with long black hair
and flawless soft face
covered
with slap marks
and sorrow.
My family married me
to a man
twice my age,
the price I paid
for loving another.

My mother told me
these stories, I think.
Exactly. Another voice responds.
My ghost, you know,
still haunts children
when they play
in the valley
a few miles away
from our neighborhood.
I see them pick up red stones
thinking they are still covered
with my blood
left when my husband stabbed me
for honor.
I wonder if they find
the stones that are engraved with
my tear-stains.

And I am Zeyneb.
My reflection interrupts
in a new strained shaky voice.
My story is heard by the few.
I still don’t know
where my cold body
is buried.
But my mom knows.
The story. My story. Her story. Their stories.
They all have the same theme.
Brother catches me
talking with a boy.
He seems cool.
until he captures me
in my own room.
My mom sees me
crying for help.
She cannot move.
Her paralyzed tongue made me
think of killing patriarchy
with my own hands.
But brother ties my wrists
behind me
and then drives me
to an unknown destination.

My mother told me these stories–
Introduced me
to an inescapable world
of women.
Now their voices are mine.
Mine,
theirs.

Photo by Artur Rekstad on Unsplash