One, two, three... pop Pimples, all gone Brush, brush, brush... swift Any more imperfections to hide? Nope, all clear
Now tell me mirror, is it pureness that you see? For this is not me, nor what I intend to be Watching me grow from dauntless to wanting to appear so dear Oh how I wish I could polish the years of society's willingness to rule me so utterly Its' footsteps stomping its' way down my back, still, I persevere...
Tell me mirror, does it hurt? Does it hurt witnessing me go all the way from oh so untethered to oh no, petrified of every little flaw? Does it hurt viewing my eyes water as I double-check just to make sure? To make sure no living soul feels intimidated by natural flaw? If so, does it tare you little by little inside?
Forced to look me in the eye, whilst the words 'not good enough' appear on my forehead Does it **** you more more inside as you grow old, glass getting rusty, not being able to tell me how beautiful in fact I am?