Looking for Others

In the mirror, I am looking for others.
The boy my father wanted after I remained
stoic at the number of canes he attempted
to break through me. The girl my mother wanted
me to stay, starving me for a little more time.
I try the lens of my late grandmother, unmoved
but crushed by my betrayal of skin a concentrated
tea wash she could not to hide her disdain from.
I imagine the racist woman from the coffee shop
barking my order back in bad English,
because she hurt to hear
her language misappropriated.
Another woman kindly complimenting
the arcs and tones I manoeuvre
easily because Mandarin can be a feat.
From the words of an ex, I see fetish
and a social ladder, its steps broken .
I hold all of me together in the mirror
and they fit. All colours inside the outline,

not a shard missing. But they crumble
so quickly, my palms unable to stretch enough to
hold these pieces, already broken.