oh, the hours I have lost to the mirror

staring into my own eyes
studying every edge
every inch
with scientific rigour

watching
as my face and body
contort themselves
into new and grotesque angles

the longer I look
the tighter I am wrapped
by the suffocating bonds of truth

the flaws mount
on a carefully noted list
graffiti on my brain
each word seeping thick, black ink
pooling at my feet
rising to my neck

self-loathing is bitter and viscid in my mouth
when I tried to swallow
it wedged
a dry lump in my throat

I wish I could take a knife
to cut away every imperfection
to slim the nose
to slice the fat
to carve the cheekbones
to dig out the freckles
and leave myself a beautiful, ****** mess

I wish I could hold a candle to my face
until it dripped
like wax
soft enough to be moulded
into whatever
whoever
they wanted.

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?