Standing still, blinking
At your mirror, and it blinks back.
Studying the dull look
In two tired eyes,
And the darkness that surrounds them,
Flecked with dry skin.
You're disgusting.
Little white-and-black spots
Scattered on your nose,
Your cheeks,
The space beneath your dry mouth.
Some odd thickness, heaviness,
Weighing on your throat.
Breathing is difficult.
You're not good enough.
Your forehead (and most of
Your skin, really)
Is covered with reddish lumps
With whiteish centres,
Sticking out like mountains.
A surface that's either too dry,
Or too oily,
And never perfect (because
That's the way it's meant to work).
Eyes burning, and water
Falling out through loose edges.
It sticks to your lashes.
A figure that you can't bear to see:
Disproportionate, clumsy,
Fat, ugly, disgusting.
No one likes you this way.
Metal in your chest, pulling
You down into a sea of hate.
Trying to stay above the surface -
But every time a wave crashes down,
You sink even further.
Left alone, gasping for air.
Lifeguards with closed eyes.
You're not good enough.
You don't want to give up control.
But as the days go by,
Drowning seems like the easier option.
Dead eyes filled with tears.
An internal, eternal battle,
While you're just standing there.
Your don't care, do you?
And yet it's everything you care about.
Standing still, blinking
At your mirror -
you'll never be good enough
- and it blinks back.
YOU ARE READING
the mind's recesses
Poetrywords that fell out of inky fingers, and stained the paper that lay on wooden tables.
