🪞 What if the mirror loved you back?

I used to flinch when I passed it.
Turn my face. Hold my breath.
Perform my worth into the glass
and hope it wouldn’t notice the crack.

I abandoned the mirror for years.
She stayed.

The right eye held its post like a soldier in fog—
watching every collapse I wouldn’t admit to.
Even when I didn’t want to exist.
Even when I tore at my skin.
Even when I forgot what I looked like.

Now I’m learning to stay.
Not as performance.
Not as punishment.
Just presence.

I sit with the mirror like it’s a fire.
I don’t ask it to like me.
I just stay long enough to be seen.

Some days I cry.
Some days I talk to the girl with spider eyes behind the glass.
Some days I blink and feel the threads pull through my throat—
a language I haven’t fully learned, but still trust.

My mirror work isn’t scripted.
It isn’t fixed.
It isn’t soft or easy.
It’s just mine.

It started with breath.
Then eye contact.
Then hands.
Then sound.
Then stillness.
Then the knowing:
She was always there.
And she never left.

The Right Eye

That’s where I return.
That’s the one that holds the thread.
The grief. The rage. The shimmer. The child.
The watcher behind the mask.

What Will Live Here (under construction)

🪞 Mirror videos
Find them on TikTok, IG, and Facebook: @LouiCrow
Posted raw. No polish.
Just what the body showed me that day.

📜 Songs like Right Eye and I Love You, Anyway
Written inside the ritual.
Played inside the mirror.
Soundtracks for the ones who stare and shake.

and more..

Begin Here

Look into your right eye.
Say: I see you.
Don’t leave.

If you start to tear yourself apart, witness it.
If no kind words come, try silence.
Listen to your eye.

If that lands, write to me:
📧 louicrow@gmail.com — Subject: Mirror Ritual

Or follow the flame:
📱 @LouiCrow on TikTok, IG, Facebook
I post mirror rituals, tantrums, soft rage, and truth without costume.

Final Words

This page is still forming.
The ritual is still writing itself.
But I needed somewhere to thank the mirror for staying.
To say: I’m here. I’m looking.
I’m learning to love what looks back.

The mirror doesn’t blink.
The mirror forgives.
The mirror waits.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. Anyway.”
— I Love You, Anyway