Mirror Listing, No Refunds

I try not to explain. Like photographing
a mirror to sell online, I crop the fatigue out
with a surgeon’s precision. Angle the frame
to hide the worst of it—misfire in my muscles,
the way my spine leans as a question
no one dares to ask. Still, evidence leaks in:
a tremor in the breath, a sliver of shoulder
sagging under weather no one else can feel,
canceled plans. The paint peels in places
I pretend not to see. As if “excellent condition”
could scrub out the fracture lines of guilt.
As if “like new” meant anything other than
“damaged, but still marketable.” Some days,
I overlight the room to bleach the heaviness
from my limbs. Smile so wide it fissures
at the edges, then mourn the strength wasted on
this pretending. I stage the shot—still, my body
tells on me. Tiredness hastens the dusk like
a slow eclipse, swallowing daylight too early.
Each morning, my reflection offers a bargain:
mask the brokenness, or meet the world as is.
Someone always catches the truth in this
mirror listing. Even so—I live. I make toast.
Send emails. Wish for nothing but the gold of
a fresh dawn to crawl over the windowsill. Still,
I click upload. Let them ask if the frame can be
salvaged, if the shape warping in the periphery
is just a trick of the light. Let them insist that
they notice something moving beyond this
curated shot—and wonder if it wants out, or in.