my body is a bullet
reflection deflects, shoots back at me like a revolver
so i avoid at all costs, turn my head to face the wall
i am hiding from me
my attempts to morph, to shape myself into something i can look at
prove themselves to be hopeless
it only makes sense in the dark, a single flame to illuminate
there is far too much light beaming down on me with its disgusting discovery, my every inch
i have been called beautiful by many who never looked through my glass wall
i never believed the accusation of beauty, exposed in all my dissatisfaction
if i could walk confidently in a room, would i face myself then?
i was born this way, how could i help it?
still i pin it to my chest, it is my fault
remind yourself, nothing will fix you, you must accept the consequences of your born form
could i ever reach a day i do not cynically scowl in the mirror?
for what do i truly appear?
i suppose i will never know
