You stand undressed
in front of the mirror,
and every time,
you cast open the gates
and step
into your labyrinth of
doubts, every time,
into winding passages
full of thorns
and black brambles.
You wander in
just to scratch
the itch
of hating yourself.
You pinch your hips,
and squeeze your breasts
and frown at yourself.
You are looking
for the minotaur,
for the shaggy head
and the bloody horns,
for the muscle and fur
that will put its knee
into your back
and break you.
You poke the lines
of your face, you
wander the moss-
frosted stones
and pick your way
through, you listen for his
lowing, for his hooves
stamping on the rock,
for the hot breath he huffs
and sniffs for you,
and with every step,
you draw nearer and nearer.
But there is more
in your labyrinth
than that.
Past the brambles
and the bends,
the cobblestones break
and there is a garden
growing wild in the center,
full of red and yellow dahlias,
full of climbing ivy and
white virgin’s bower,
and the full brightness of the sun.
The minotaur
doesn’t dare go near there,
he doesn’t dare.
