The mirror tells the truth.

All my life, I’ve been taught to lie. “Don’t tell anyone,” whispered into the dark, night after night. “Tell her you fell. You’re such a klutz, it’s not like anyone will doubt it.”

Lies are like little patches on a quilt—alone, they’re ugly, but if you weave them just right, no one will notice that something’s wrong.

But the mirror knows. The mirror’s always known.

The mirror sees the bruises, the scars. The mirror sees what my jeans and t-shirt cover. The mirror knows I didn’t fall down the stairs. But it doesn’t matter. Because the mirror can never tell.

The mirror can’t tell about nights of being ripped out of bed; of being thrown down the stairs and unable to get up. The mirror stays silent…just like me.

The mirror tells the truth, and I lie.
But is there really a difference?