I look at her, her sad eyes and juvenile wrinkles. A face riddled with scars and red bumps, interweaved with healed and unhealed flesh. I wish I didn't care about what I see in the mirror.
I wish I didn't care about how my skin feels against my fingertips, or what I see when I search for my reflection.
They talk about loving yourself but how can I, when all I see is a hideous monster? I know, I know. There are sorrows much painful, woes more pertinent than mine. But how do I tell my mind to stop crucifying itself?
How do I diffuse these electrical impulses, from my eyes to my brain, carrying an image of my face and interpreting it as unnatural, ugly, pitiful?
I wish I didn't spend so much time, trying to wash this dirt off me, trying to pick and probe at the scabs, when I know it's a part of me, arising from me.
How do I stop myself from judging my worth as the sum of these scars that lie skin deep?