Before the Mirror

...and pretend I did the before-work— / to glow golden / when it isn’t my hour.

I haven’t looked yet.
The morning light is polite,
flirting through the blinds—
you sure you want honesty this early?

I sip and pray my stomach keeps quiet.
No sudden revolt
halfway through his story
about thesis deadlines
and nine-irons.

If anxiety had manners,
it would stay in the throat,
not tumble all the way down
to the gut.
But here we are.

I sip again,
testing the mirror in my mind.
If there’s a zit,
let it live low—
chin, cheek, even near the mouth,
somewhere I can pass off as charm.
I’ll think he’s looking at my lips,
not my red flag waving high.

A forehead one—
right in the spotlight,
unmissable.
Even mascara bows out
of that performance.

I should get up.
Wash my face,
look myself in the skin.
Instead, I finish the coffee—
ridiculous, drinking coffee
before a coffee date—
a pregame for potential disaster.

Maybe he’ll notice.
Maybe he won’t.
Either way, I’ll meet his eyes
and pretend I did the before-work—
to glow golden,
when it isn’t my hour.

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Spare Parts & Poems lives inside Sheridan’s Junk Drawer— the side channel. Welcome. It’s messy in here.

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xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
What Sheridan Said
Sheridan’s Junk Drawer
SheridanGuerrette.com