We don't like to look into the mirror.

None can bear the ugly sight they would see of themselves, covered in scars and disfigured body and all.

The monsters would be running the other way.

We've eyes, eyes blacker than midnight, black inks tainting our charcoal-streaked cheeks instead of precious jewelled tears, ink that spread and stay forever in our pores.

We've hair, although it isn't silky threads. It's ragged locks, thorns spike out, wildflowers as poisonous as our kisses.

We've skin. But it isn't smooth. There are cracks on our skin, as deep as mountain ravine and as wide as ocean gorges.

We've faces, and each as twisted and burnt as the other one. We wear very thick steel masks that painted in colourful paints, with exotic designs and adorned with jades and diamonds, golds and onyx. We wake up, donned on our mask and expensive decorative on our hair and ears and fingers and nails, and flatter ourselves with Chinese silk veil and Korean pearls. But at the end, when we stand in front of the bronze mirror, undressing ourselves, we're forced to come face-to-face with our scar-scored faces and swollen lips and bleeding teeth and crooked smile.

The God had punished us for lying to them. We were borned beautiful, but for each lie, our body crippled.

That was ten thousand years ago. We still don't like to look in the mirror.