“Mirror Soup”, a survivor's poem
As an Indian non-binary survivor of violence due to my sexual orientation and gender identity, I struggle to find myself in conversations around violence, child safety, and sexual literacy. The people I look up to in my community: my family, teachers, peers, and social workers often disappoint me or reject my experiences because they fall through the gaps of their very limited understanding of what violence is and who can experience it in what ways. In this poem, I reflect on this reality and my frustration—on the loss of my identity and the dual life I live to fit into predefined boxes of civility. The deformed mirror and whirlpool of images are how I see the world around me, just as it sees me.
“Mirror Soup”
And every time I look into you,
you simmer.
Like some forgotten kettle brewing
a bitter tea.
A swanless lake with a ripple too many.
Is that me?
Is that me?
Am I visible? Can you see me too, from
the other side?
I have a name. I lost it.
It fell through the cracks in you, mirror soup.
It fell, and it simmered, too.
With all the fake smiles. And tears.
And all the “boys don’t wear nail polish.”
And the “shush, don’t speak about it.” You deserve it.
And the “it is fine now! Get over it.”
Is it fine now?
Mirror soup: why is it that others see
themselves? And I see a shadow?
I see a silenced child—a closeted cry.
I see sounds and calls. Of help. Of validation.
I see tastes. Of mirror soups. Of bitter tea.
The closet tastes of cobwebs and dust.
Incidentally, the soup does too.
And every time I look into you,
you simmer. Like a forgotten kettle.
I simmer with you. In you.
In a cold, indifferent world.
In a world as rigid as glass and just as fragile.
In a world where faces become numbers
and numbers become dust.
We simmer. We bubble. We burn.
Perhaps, someday
we might boil over?
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