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?
