Reptilian tales

What I see in my reflection, sometimes

I see a lizard. Narrowed eyes under arched brows, reptilian green. A sneer behind thin lips. A spike of terror flashes in my chest. The creature is unwelcoming, unrecognizable, unpleasant. I imagine teeth like fangs, each filed to a point, but the lips don’t move. We blink in turn, waiting for an unknown cue. I can see a hand resting on the sink, red nails chipped, Chanel. Why bother? Her carelessness turns my head, thoughts like a violent ocean chopping and smashing, as I try to comprehend. The vanity is apparent, but lazy. I look back up at her eyes, check her makeup. Still in place, although beginning to smear. Can’t have that. We wipe underneath. That’s better. Her brown hair is up, in some sort of messy chignon, what is this? A wedding? I check behind her ears for scales, but she’s hidden them well. Red lace earrings brush her shoulders, symmetrical patterns reflected. She chews on her middle fingernail, almost an accidental gesture of rudeness. She’s young, but aging. That strange age that everyone wants to look, mid-twenties, incomplete. Our eyes meet, and that terror flashes again. Who is that? So vivid, electric green, so naturally walled up behind some facade of superiority. She is better than you, smarter than you, hotter than you. She knows. She needs to be. For her own self-worth. Sucks to be you, I smile to myself, and for a moment her eyes flicker. Some mild alarm behind that sneer, but she maintains eye contact. Our chin lifts. We look down on each other, tongue touching the back of our front tooth, single eye narrowing. Lips close. Tongue flicks. We lean forward, refusing fear. Demanding recognition. Not recognizing your reflection is a symptom of schizophrenia, and fuck you, we’re not unhinged.