I’m here, standing in the mirror, a content sigh escapes my lips. Here I am, a new day to relive my pain. My hands trace every curve of my body, every feminine feature I have stares at me with a smug smile.

My reflection stares at me. I see the scars. They fill every inch of my body. They make up every slope of ink on my body. The cigarette burn on my fingers that’s been replaced with intricate designs of the rose flower.

My fingers trace the bird tattoo on my shoulder blade and I wince – not because it hurts, but the memory does. The detailed design of the 3D eagle that covers the deep gash I once had on my shoulder makes me smile. October 31^st, 2021, I came out of the court crying because justice has been served. I am vindicated. The eagle weathers through the storm and comes out victorious. This bird reminds me how I won over my abusers and made them pay. Now, I don’t see the abused, I see the conqueror.

The little love tattoo on my hip bone reminds me of how much I am capable of loving and to be loved. “My little secret,” I smiled into the mirror. Only true lovers have gotten to see this simple yet beautiful symbol that’s a part of me. Once upon a time, I hated my body. I hated me. That’s not me anymore. “I am a work of art” “My body….fire,” that’s what I tell the woman in the mirror. My reflection.

I rub the little baby feet on my underbelly, below my navel. The evidence of the surgery covered by those tiny, beautiful feet. I smile for what I’ve lost. My beautiful baby. I named him Tari because he is my love and light, even in death. My beautiful boy. I did not get to hold him, not for a moment, because I was out cold. He was already buried before I could open my eyes. The reminder of his being is still in that shoebox hidden under the bed.

A lone tear slipped past my eyes. No, I won’t cry. I’ve lost, I’ve wailed and I’ve mourned. So no, I won’t cry anymore.

I look at my wrist. It’s almost healed, I thought. The evidence of what I had done stares at me in silent mockery. The scar is faint, almost unnoticeable. I had slashed my wrist. I didn’t want to die, no, I wanted pain. I needed it. I craved pain because it is a high I’m familiar with. I smiled. I smiled at what’s to come. I smiled at the inscription of my boy’s name that will be in cursive lettering at the end of today. My baby, never to be forgotten.

The whispers never come in the day, no…they come at night. They are whispers but they are not quiet. They echo in the corners of my room. A loud cackle, a condescending sneer and mangled voices, they dance in my sleep to taunt me.

My nights are never peaceful but my days are better. The hustle and bustle of the city fills my head louder than the voices.

Well, I have done enough brooding for the day. With a resigned sigh, I slipped on my shorts and shirt, grabbed my wide rimmed hat and shades, applied lipgloss, rearranged my scowl to a charming smile. It is a new day and I have just the perfect number of tourists to show around.