BB Grey–musings

---

What the Mirror Cannot Hold
for the one who stays

This morning, again,
I looked into the mirror.
Not to admire—
but to assess the damage.
A wrinkle deepens by my mouth.
My skin forgets its old light.
A tenderness in my joints
sings its low, persistent song.

The world does not mourn this shift.
It sells creams and knives
and digital masks.
It tells me—
I am too much,
or not enough,
depending on the day.

Out there,
they parade perfection
on plastic mannequins
and flickering screens—
cheekbones carved from marble,
skin stretched tight with stories
they’ve never had to live.

And in here,
I count the cost—
of every pill,
every doctor’s shrug,
every hour I’ve spent
trying to remain beautiful
to a culture that never truly saw me.

Darling,
I wept yesterday.
Not out of vanity—
but out of grief.
Grief for the girl I once was,
for the woman I am now,
and for the cruel machine
that told me one was better than the other.

You didn’t speak.
You didn’t rush to soothe.
You did not offer remedies.
You simply remained—
a silent witness,
the surest kind.

You watched me,
as I trembled
beneath the weight
of all I am told I lack.
You looked at me
as if the moon had nothing on my quiet.

You said, without saying:
Let me be your mirror.
Let me hold you where it no longer hurts.

So I write this for you,
who loves me
not in spite of what fades,
but because I remain—
soft,
tender,
real.

Let the world take what it will.
Let the body do what it must.
Let the mirror speak its shallow truths.

I will listen instead
to the sound of your breath beside mine.
To the hush between us
where nothing needs to be said
because everything is seen.

And I will walk with you—
slowly,
as one does
when they know
what it means
to be truly loved.

---

Author’s Note

Though I am a man, I wrote this piece from the voice of a woman—not to claim her experience, but to honor it.

In listening to the one I love, I’ve come to understand, even in part, the quiet ache many women carry as they age in a world that worships youth and perfection. I don’t pretend to fully know what it feels like to live in a body judged so harshly by both medicine and media. But I do see the cost. I hear the sorrow. And I feel the injustice of it deeply.

This poem is my attempt—not to explain her pain, but to sit beside it.

To say: I am here. I see you. You are still everything.