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.