by Zoe DeVoe




A person’s never had my back

but a mirror always has

Wearing a gown of translucence

an illusion bouncing light back

like a pendulum against a prism

rainbow eclipses made by the eye

My vision tends to lie

Lashes bite down on neurons

who send transmissions that connive


It’s happening

as I rest my hands on the sink

Lean towards the reflective piece

trying to cut out a tongue

wiggling from lips that don’t exist

Transfixed by a face that warps

either better or worse than before

Past versions of expressions

relayed back from recollection


You can’t wash away the memories

You can’t be freed from remembering

The scars stain like birthmarks

Some days they’ll leave a smile

at the corners of your mouth

Other times they’ll pull it down

into a sickening, plunging frown

Either way, they’re stretch marks

and the mirror is a filter

You’re the constellation picker

connecting the dots into a picture.

Author Bio

Zoe DeVoe is an LGBTQ+ author with a passion for poetry focused on love, mental health, and general activism. She also enjoys writing experimental novels and short stories.