There is sugar in my hair.
And not that you care,
but I spent a good amount of time last night standing in front of my mirror.
When I look at my face, I see the history of hurt.
My pores are wide and full of dirt.
My eyebrows grow sporadically towards my hairline.
My nose is exposed to too much sun, and it has eroded over time.

So I close my eyes,
like pressing the refresh button
and open them slowly to see myself once again.

The glass reveals nothing new.

I watch my lips as they whisper your name.

I raise my hands above my head
and lean back on my heels,
tilting my head and grunting in frustration.

I return to the same face.

The problem is that I hide behind insecurity. I demand honesty but refuse to be vulnerable. And every time I want to slap the face I see in the mirror.
My insides scream out to be fearless
and to choke back the sounds
secretly hoping you’ll hear them
even though I refuse to free myself from this trap.
Your only fault is not reading my mind.
Scratch that,
your only fault is being blind.
Scratch that,
my problem is that I expect you to be all seeing and all knowing.

You are no god.
You do not hold power inside of you to release the bellows of my heart.
You are not on a quest to free me from myself.
All you are is a human,
with skin and bones and muscles that put all together
are a beautiful masterpiece of a dream come to life.
Your eyes are familiar,
but I hardly know what they look like because
I fear their gaze.
Your face brings a calm and confident presence,
but I hardly notice because
I am already picturing it with some other girl next to you.

Yet you break from the mold of the mess I made so many years ago.
You show me that you are flawed
That your pieces do not fit me the way I thought.
The jagged edges cut deep into who I am.
The holes release my insecurities.
I quickly plug them with excuses
And bragging of things I know I am good at.

Ants have a system of finding food.
The scouts set out, leaving scent trails.
As they find food, the others follow the path that smells the strongest.
The scouts return with a message of a prize, yet when the prize is removed they begin to worry and scurry.
The ants wander in the spot that once held promise,
confused and anxious.

I wonder if those ants feel insecure when they arrive and nothing is there.
Do they question their ability to find the food?
Do they wonder if it was there fault when the scraps are thrown away or removed?

You don’t owe me anything.
You never promised or told me words of hope.

Yet I feel like the ant that found a beautiful piece of food,
but cannot find a way back to you.
I am running around in my head,
trying to find my way to you,
but it’s a futile search.

It’s a pointless wandering of daydreams and conversations that will never happen.

Because I hide.

My face feels heavy.
The skin is bloated with too much stress eating and not enough sunshine.
Instead of fixing the problems, I try and mask them with sugar scrubs and pinterest remedies. I don’t want pity,
nor do I seek attention.
I earnestly hope you find yourself happy,
and I earnestly hope
I can accept it.