Head down. Avoid eye contact. It’s just a bathroom mirror. Don’t give it the light of day. Use only quick glances; don’t focus on its features.
Ignore the cracked, dotted skin. Scratched, hairy legs. Broad, heavy shoulders. Bulging, outward gut. Broken, torn nails.
Don’t make a single sound. Don’t let it hear me. Not a cough, sneeze, or sigh. The echoes of the white walls and glass are relentless.
Make it quick. Get out fast. Brush my teeth, comb my hair, but don’t act like I own this body. It isn’t mine. It can’t be.
Finally, step away from the mirror.