The girl wonders if she has ever really seen her body through her own eyes. She cannot remember. She can remember what she has been told: angel, beautiful, dirty black whore. “Me,” she says to her body in the mirror every day for years. “Mine,” she says, and “I.” She repeats me, mine, I until, finally, she catches a glimpse of her body that seems unfiltered. She learns, gradually, to shift her focus, to find her true reflection. Seeing herself in this way requires intention. It is not always possible.
