who is she? i’m not saying that in a cute, quirky, self-confident way either, like genuinely, who is she? i don’t remember when i morphed from a bony, pimply, bowlegged teen into a soft, dimpled, hunchbacked “adult”. there are still remnants of her-- my forehead still bears the marks of farms of blackheads and my collarbones are still visible when i allow them to be-- but her this “woman” looking back at me is still as foreign as blood pudding. i still feel the same, relatively, as i did when i was 5 years younger. i still tend to wear clothes that are comfortable over flattering. i still feel my stomach tied into itself at the thought of making a doctor’s appointment on my own. i still feel like me. but her? i don’t recognize her.
taken from the prompt by little infinite poetry (the 30-day guide). i was instructed to look at my reflection. definitely a work in progress but i did like how it turned out :)
my mom always said pretty girls don’t pick their face so then I look at me and I feel like a disgrace because my hands won’t stay in place and pretty girls don’t pick their face I blame myself for every bump that shows and I hate that everyone knows don’t pick they say but these things aren’t on their face I’m so ashamed I just want to hide away because pretty girls don’t pick their face someday they’ll disappear and you’ll feel prettier “it’s sad you don’t feel confident in your own skin” they say it’s a phase but all the negatives out weigh because pretty girls don’t pick their face
Everytime I look in the mirror, I wonder what you see in me. I see all my flaws, you see my beauty. I see scars, you see my survival. I see all the acne and bags under my eyes, you see my struggle to sleep with understanding. You see that I try to take care of myself but it’s hard sometimes. In comparison to others I feel immensely inferior. So I ask myself what do you see in me? Why can’t I see what you see?
Why does the mirror deceive me?
“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder” Why do I see me the way I do?
they are like constellations of stars flung across the infinity of my cheeks.
they are like suns and moons my face is the cosmos.
my face is a blank canvas and they are the paints.
my face is the water and they are the ripples that run through it.
my skin is my own and they are there. even when i don't want them to be they will be.
just like everything else, normal.
i've struggled with bad skin for a long time, and have slowly come to realise that no matter how well i eat, how much sleep i get, how much i wash my face or how much i exercise, its a factor of my life and i just have to accept it! having acne doesn't make you ugly, its a part of you that you have to learn to accept, because if you fight something it will just get worse.
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?