Is there something wrong with me?
I stare at my reflection, hating myself for every imperfection.
Outlining treatments in my mind.
Some things, you just can't fix without plastic surgery.
Well, that shit's scary.
My name is meaningless in my head
It's just what they'll call me when I'm dead.
My name doesn't look like it fits my face.
I'm not sure what but something feels a little out of place.
My reflection is riddled with imperfection.
With every detection of these imperfections, I hate my face more and more.
YOU ARE READING
Complexity
PoetryA poem collection. These.. mean a lot to me. "Complexity is being me, not knowing who you'll really be, knowing you'll have to wait and see."
