I saw her face all the time, mistook it for mine, little mirror said nothing.
That should have been the first sign. I got stuck at what parts of each other
we would share. I want your hair, I’d say. She would smile, dress her doll.
I was eight when we wore the same outfit to church, but couldn’t match
her pony-tail’s sway up the aisle. After mass, adults cast their gaze down,
eye-scales weighing us. I watched how distorted and untidy I became
in glass diamonds on the chapel door, outside the priest called me a big girl.
I want to be you in every reflective surface, boxed in. Instead I stare at a plump
face I do not recognise, its green eyes replicating. I try on that tiny pointed smile.