How do I write a poem about the fact that in my childhood bedroom I had about 10 glow-in-the-dark stars blue-tacked to my ceiling, and that I could touch them if I stood on my bed on my tippy toes, and now, in my 3rd year of university, in the the house I rent with my friends, I have ridiculously high ceilings and a projector that shows me a galaxy?

How do I describe the feeling of staring into the bathroom mirror at my 20 year old reflection and seeing the ghost of my younger self looking back at me from behind my bloodshot eyes? We both stand there at two thirty in the morning with tears running down our cheeks, our hands angrily ****** in our hair and our stomachs ****** in to the point of pain. I can't tell her that it'll stop, because it hasn't.

The dreams she had slip further and further away from me. I can't reach the stars anymore.

Scroll through the gram, read through a book,
Don’t know who I am, try not to look,
At a mirror, an image of the one I don’t want to see,
The scarred and bruised, broken picture that’s me.
Rather have seven years of bad luck
Than see that ugly face,
That I know I should embrace,
But time and time again
I close my eyes and try to pretend
That I’m a princess, an angel, the focus of a poem,
Where a man falls in love with the face that is shown
But that’s not me, that’s only – a fantasy,
And sadly, the reality,
Of it is this.
I compare myself to her, to them, to anyone and everyone.
See, I’m never half as pretty, never half as skinny, never half as lucky,
But that’s not true… is it?
According, to my reality, the way I see, the way I think,
It is.
This is my truth. This will be the death of me.
Can’t you see? This is my distorted reality.