Behind Closed Doors

Finally, just this once, I finally had the audacity to scrutinize my every flaw in the man-made material called a mirror. My eyes outline every detail on my face; observing every beautiful, uniquely flawed God given trait that swiftly passed on to me from my mother. My eyes wandered from my face to my body, outlining my prepossessing curves and left my hands to trace over them. My fingertips ran over some scars from the past while exploring, scars that still haunt me from the people that caused them but they're people that I'm forced to be associated with still. I rarely ever look at myself like this: naked. Looking at myself naked was like a whole new experience for me again. I try to avoid it as much as possible. I felt ashamed. What's ironic is, is that I can't look at myself naked but yet I would let other people have the privilege to. And because of that I feel so utterly disgusted by my own cause of actions.

I don't respect my body, I try to let other people do it for me. But what's the point of other people respecting your body if you don't have the dignity of doing it for yourself?

I've been asking myself that same question for eleven years.

I loathed my lack of responsible and respectable actions. I can carry myself high like a queen and act as if I'm a very important and superior woman who has the respect of many but in all actuality I feel as though all that is just a never ending joke. A queen doesn't disrespect herself or belittle's herself for the people around her, especially if that's what they want her to do. That's exactly what I was doing. I was a queen, can you believe that? People still think that I am but only I know the truth.

Only I know the truth.

Cover by: @jupiterscript