Before The Mirror

I haven’t looked yet.

The morning light is polite,

flirting through the blinds—

you sure you want honesty this early?

I sip and pray my stomach keeps quiet.

No sudden revolt

halfway through his story

about thesis deadlines

and nine-irons.

If anxiety had manners,

it would stay in the throat,

not tumble all the way down

to the gut.

But here we are.

I sip again,

testing the mirror in my mind.

If there’s a zit,

let it live low—

chin, cheek, even near the mouth,

somewhere I can pass off as charm.

I’ll think he’s looking at my lips,

not my red flag waving high.

A forehead one—right in the spotlight,

unmissable.

Even mascara bows out

of that performance.

I should get up.

Wash my face,

look myself in the skin.

Instead, I finish the coffee—

ridiculous, drinking coffee

before a coffee date—

a pregame for potential disaster.

Maybe he’ll notice.

Maybe he won’t.

Either way, I’ll meet his eyes

and pretend I did the before-work—

to glow golden,

when it isn’t my hour.

s.g.