Mulan sang about not knowing her reflection.
well, the trouble is, I know mine,
it's just that I don't like her at all-
the way her big eyes are like a child's,
stuck in a woman's long face
and a crone's deep blue bags
and a ghost's pale freckles.

I used to think she was pretty,
but most of the time now I just glare a little
and I ask her where the time went,
even though I can see **** well
all the minutes pined away in the shadows
of her cheekbones,
the ones people used to call beautiful,
the ones that they now silently observe and think,
just a little too deep, a little too empty,
and they're right.

God, they're right.

Because she's spent too much time staring in that mirror,
trying to will herself to believe that she is beautiful,
she is worth it,
she is better than what other people think,
and she's been lying all this time.
The pair of us, we've never liked liars,
but I'm staring her in the face
and I'm deciding to tell the truth.
Girl, you've spent years in this misery
and you have nothing to be sad about.

Maybe it's all those **** tears you won't shed.
It's because you know you're uglier when you cry,
when your eyes swell up
and you suddenly have lids that rival your bags,
and your skin is no longer so pale
but for the huge red patches all over
like swollen blood flames.
If it's one thing you're more afraid of than anything,
it's that Daddy lied when he said you were pretty,
and you were a fool for believing.

You were a fool.

Are a fool.

Those swollen, patchy cheeks might pass for motley,
might as well,
so why don't you cry for once
and accept that he doesn't love you,
that you're maybe not going to do great things,
that you probably won't live up to your own expectations
and certainly not your family's,
and maybe you're not as wanted as everyone promises,
and yes, you're maybe even a bit unattractive
but for God's sake
it's even worse to try and convince yourself
that none of it's true.

Sweetheart, it's true.

I'll cry with you.

If this is what I have to do then I may as well admit it to you, if no one else. Because you, the person in my head, the one I always talk to instead of real people in the world... you may be the only one who sees me for who I am. Broken and hurting and falling with no safe place to land. It's hard for me to show you why I'm stuck here in this place, but the easiest way to put it is the hardest thing to say. I loved him. I love him still. It's forcing back against my will, I push, it shoves, I'm falling down, my head has lost its mental crown. For in this state I do not own the thoughts I have; you can relate- I am their slave, as you are mine. I manipulate the way you perceive me, and they force me to feel this way as well. Just as I do, they can deceive me, and force me how this way to tell. I do not want to love him now, but I can't find the strength I need to muster to push him away. The longer he's here, the faster it stays. You see the problem? I know I do, it's hard for me to admit to you because I don't want it to be a problem! I want to hold him close at night, I want to feel close beside me, and his warmth and soft embrace- there was a time he set the pace, and I followed. But now it seems he's only pulled away enough for his own mental anguish to desist, while I am left to ponder on this list of reasons I still feel attached, and my heart to his is latched. I only wish for freedom, but know I am not willing to take back my own kingdom if it means dethroning him, for he leads so well. But when he leaves my mind throbs and swells in a state of mental discourse between myself (and you of course), and him and them and everyone who tries to feed my ways to cope. But I don't need their games- it's all a joke, with the punch line being: I'll still love him, all said and done. Someday when we both find someone he will be happy, as will I, and likely the truth is as you say; the best doctor is time. Behind these mental prisons there are tunnels I have dug, and deep inside one a small hope remains snug that somewhere far along the path he and I will cross and laugh at how we thought it wouldn't be and yet it seems he's there for me and we will walk along together, facing storms and dreary weather... because like I said, all along he's been the one inside my head. And perhaps I've been in his. But now it's time to leave that dream, buried deep within this hole. I cannot visit it, it seems it will only hold me back once more. You understand, don't you? How I have to do this alone? I know you want to help me here, but if he picks up the phone, it will only be me- one voice, one sound. Telling him that I have found I have to fire him from this position of entitlement he's found over my being, over myself. Of course, he doesn't know he's there- he never did anything wrong.... all of these things I've come to find, I've placed him there within my mind. I love him, I loved him, and I do still. Its all against my will. I may deceive you more, but at least understand- I've tried to shut the door. It will close itself when it is ready, which may be now.

I remember sitting with my legs crossed
at an empty parking lot with you.
Burning our lungs,
sharing our deepest secrets at 3am
while I rest my head
on your shoulder that cold summer night.
I sang along our favorite songs
and you wished that time stopped
so we could still be together.

But alas,

You are still too damaged.
You think too much.
You are too practical.
You are not yet ready for anything.

And I’m left confused
and angry
and frustrated
and a little bit hurt, I guess.

So here we are again,
so here we go again.

Who would have thought
that we would actually
burn even faster
than our cigarettes?

                                                    ­                        
 — apbq

This pain is too familiar.

Is it bad that I went back to have a glimpse of you,
lover lost in haze and days,
and got myself this deep knot tightening every minute?

Is it bad that I miss you without loving you

Freedom is not just emancipated ideas
eloquently expressed in a verbal or written fashion

Freedom is not just uninhibited emotions
flauntingly displayed as a graphic or immature ruse

Freedom is not just unrestricted movements
randomly performed with a chance or designed purpose

Freedom is not just autonomous symbols
deeply epitomized by a banner or even a notion

Freedom exists in the minds of the open
to comprehend the essence behind the symbols

Freedom exists in the actions of the forces
to blaze new pathways and synergize movements

Freedom exists in the resolve of the free
to exercise empathy with those lost in emotions

Freedom exists in the love of the word
to elevate one’s born right beyond hollow ideas.