“Her” -A poem by Nico Behrens

Trigger Warning: mentions of abuse and some body horror

Her

Some days;
I stand in the mirror
And see Her—
In myself.

It is too much
Like a shadow:
Ever following
And flowing
Into things past.

Some days;
I stand in the mirror
And see the motioning face of mine:
Not seeing itself:
Glazed-blind eyes and oh so disgustingly pretty–

A being stolen,
Not of its own.
A copy of the sallow face,
A copy of Her.
A copy.
I blanch and look away.

Ungrateful, am I,
To not believe the grace given to me?
A life to live regardless? A consciousness?

Do I have such
With a face like this:
Ever in Her image
Even if in hints
That reveal themselves
Again and again?

The same color.
The same eyes.
The same mind.
One mind?
A mirror displaying my shadow.

Some days;
I stand in the mirror
And see the homeless part
Of myself:
One that got only a glance and
Never got to live,
Never got to gain its full consciousness–

The near-corpse,
Forgotten by all but me,
That sits behind me
And watches awaiting the weakness
Of the Mirror of Shadows—
So that it may take back
What it was once promised—
And make its own reflection:
Rejuvenated and so much more alive
With the stolen features of Her
No longer seen by my eye.

Some days;
I stand in the mirror and
Sayings play like a looping tape:
“You look so much like Her.
Is that who you really are?”

Some days;
I stand in the mirror
And the Homeless Near-corpse would answer:
“We are our own.
We are not Her.
We are not one who plays with a smiling doll
Until it breaks under the invisible weight
Of senseless and unjust destruction created by outrage,
And then tries to mend the tattered doll
Out of desire to maintain an undeserved image.”

Some days;
I stand in the mirror
And count the similarities
When they appear to me;
And the Homeless Near-corpse
Places their strong hands

Atop my withered shoulders,
Leans around my head
To where I see his small, light, friendly smile
And the icy, rippled water that is their blazing eyes softening;
Looking at me, at us, there in the mirror.

The Homeless Near-corpse then
Tells me to stop; that it only brings
The flames of Hell higher and higher
Until they singe our coattails.
That it will slowly bring the enticing, white-haired lady,
All clad in beautiful, ragged robes, sleek as a nightshade berry,
And let her loom there in serene, patient wait as the flames create tiny ashes
Like the ones made before many years ago
That still melt and meld into our skin.

And some days;
I listen to him,
This Homeless Near-corpse no longer;
A merciful warden to my deteriorating prison:
One who cares for and shifts me to liveliness.

“There we are,” say they,
Small, light, friendly smile
Gracing his hollow cheeks: slowly filling
As we begin to attain our unreachable full consciousness.

“We are our own,
We are not Her.”

About The Author: Nico Behrens (they/them) is an all-around creative writer and philosopher. They often can be found working on stories focusing on family relationships, queerness, and mental health. In their spare time, they enjoy listening to electronica, playing Pokémon, and bouncing ideas off their friends. They also love to hang out with their two cats at the end of the day. They have been published at Turtle Way under their deadname and hope to publish more works in the future, especially the novel and novelette they are currently working on. They can be found on Tumblr and, albeit currently inactively, on Instagram and Twitter (X). 

You can find our interview with Nico here.