The water was frozen just enough to be a perfect mirror.

It was still and—maybe morning, I’m not sure, I wasn’t paying attention to the time or whatever. I was looking into the water—into the mirror, cuz mirrors like this don’t happen often in nature. And if they do, they’re the pretty sort of mirrors, light reflecting off a smooth surface like a chime or whatever. Not this; this honest picture of the world, frank and only slightly tinged with a little blue. You could shove anything in front of a mirror like this and it will tell you, bluntly, what exactly the shit is.

And here I was, looking at myself.

Looking at myself.

Because I never really do that, do I?

You were curled up somewhere, watching with vague interest, kinda dozing your little skunk nap but intrigued by everything I was doing. And thinking. And feeling. You were curious about my curiosity, and you were wondering what it meant—cuz I certainly couldn’t tell you.

What I look like don’t change who I am—so I never cared about it. And I still don’t, in all honesty. But…I mean, still. There was a crisis in my life going on, a conundrum that surrounded me that was spurred by the dawning of my own consciousness. Or like. The consciousness of my own ignorance. Something that was getting harder to ignore; steadily, I was figuring out that it was bound to fuck up the scheme of things. I can’t fix shit if I don’t know what I’m fixing; I can’t use a tool if I don’t know what it’s for.

And somehow these analogies were translating to the ignorance of my own body.

I didn’t know jack shit about it.

I was standing there, kinda staring at myself; moving my head from side to side, watching the way my neck flexed with that movement. Is it supposed to be so thick? I asked you, and you kinda cheesed a little lazily at me, your way of saying ‘How the fuck should I know?’ I frowned and I watched the way my mouth moved on my face—and I looked at my face while I was at it, at my cheekbones and my forehead and the way my ears sat on my skull. Is it supposed to look this rough?

I kind of posed; I moved my chest around, watching my muscles move underneath a hide that was overgrown, dusty, kinda sour-smelling and littered with petty scars. I frowned some more. This is ugly, isn’t it? And once again, you didn’t know, or care, cuz you loved me anyway. And I didn’t know, or care—but it was a ringing question. What was ugly? What was right?

I turned around—cuz while I was at it, I might as well look at all of me, right? It’d been a while since I’d even thought of myself from this angle; my ass was a natural part of me, not something to gawk at and pick at and speculate over. But here I was, doing just that. Is it…bad if it’s this big? I asked, more to myself than you at this point, cuz I knew you didn’t know. Is it gross if it jiggles when I move? Is it…shaped like it’s supposed to be? Are asses supposed to look like this?

I moved my tail, and another question popped into my mind—but this time, it was familiar. What does it mean if I don’t have a tail? I wondered, something panging in my chest, Is it a bad thing? What’s it mean about me?

And then I…um. I…I lifted my tail, cuz uh…that was a place I never looked, either.

Is that gross…? I asked in a tiny thought, while you yawned your little skunk yawn, Are they…are they all gross like that? How do I know if it’s shaped okay? What does it mean if it’s--

I didn’t even know what I was about to ask; I bit my lip and stared, poised awkwardly in front of a frozen pool of water. I was standing in front of the most honest mirror I’ll likely find for a while yet—and the problem was, I wasn’t sure what it was showing me.




@[Ktulu]<3
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