To look at my face
you need the mirror of your eyes.
Your eyes never wonder
how they reflect
an image of my ‘I’ to your senses.

When you read this poem,
you find an image of my thoughts
through a mirror of expressions
and judge my acceptability,
just as you do when you face this ‘I’.

All through one’s life
this ‘I’ is reflected by others,
parents, friends, wives, children, foes….
giving us a feeling of existence,
solid proof of this inseparable ‘I”.

24th Feb. 2017

If only your skin was a lighter shade
Here, this bleach might come to your aid
If only your lips weren't so full
Maybe the boys would like you at school
If only your hair wasn't so *****
Here's some caustic chemicals to make it more slinky
If only your ******* weren't so large
Here's the number to a surgeon, call and see what they charge
If only your waist was smaller (just a few inches)
Here's a corset, see how tiny it cinches?
If only your *** wasn't so round
How 'bout you run some laps to lose a few pounds?
If only you'd get your nose out of books
I bet you'd garner more stares for your looks
If only you'd change your curious personality
I hear the masses prefer banality

If only you'd see me for me
Do you know how content I'd be?
If you can't do that
Then leave me be.

by pretending I am more than I let on,
to like myself more,
to be able to forgive my weaknesses;
by pretending I am normal;
by pretending I am special;
sometimes there is pain, too much of it.
                sometimes I numb the pain.
                sometimes I worsen it,
                sometimes forget about it.
I smile a lot, even when I don’t feel like it;
by forgetting to cry;
by allowing myself to feel good enough;
by thinking I’m worthy;
by telling others I love them,
                when I am not brave enough,
                caring enough,
                too self-absorbed, to love.
by thinking that I will ever change;
by thinking that I will never change;
by giving up on myself;
by still hoping.
because I cannot lie to myself.
because I do not even know who I am.
because I’m trying
                  to become myself
                  and to get away from myself,
                  always at the same time.

I look through my photographs
And see a person I never knew.
An open smiling soul you might
Tell almost anything you wanted to.
And what a fine face I had
With shining unlined skin.
I look at that face and shake my head
Wish I looked like that again.

I don't remember being that cute
It must be a camera trick.
I'm surely not that hot now.
This just makes me sick.
Someone just managed to
Aim that cheap camera right.
Or else it was the lighting
Whether day or night.

I remember that outfit
And the length of my hair.
But I am sure someone doctored
This picture up somewhere
Because I never take pictures well.
I always look like a freak.
I mean these picture make me
Look like I had a widow's peak.

And, look how tiny my waist
And how great my style was then.
I wish I could be that hot
And that young once again.
I would  take that face back again
In a minute if I knew how.
But please no pictures of me today.
I don't like my pictures now.

Is there perfection in imperfection?
Or is that just a personal projection?
I look at my own reflection,
With mental disconnection.
The only thing I see is rejection,
Everything needs a correction.
Especially my midsection,
There is no perfection.
Only objection,
To the imperfection.

they say love yourself more, as if it’s easy like flipping on a switch in the bedroom
and looking around to see how lovely the objects inside of you are.

the glass side table clumsily polished,
like the screen of my eyes reflecting someone’s transformed image
as it passes through and turns,
a little scratched on the corner.

the lights inside you will glow and show your true self
as if your true self is not also an object that takes in the years of
being told something else.
take down the posters that keep you covered
as if it doesn’t also peel away the paint and walls to expose your skeleton.

here is the vastness of my room,
the loveliness of my true self,
the hollowed chamber of a chest that burns,
fallen over objects,
awaiting the switch.

I have wished for years
That my collarbones would make themselves
Known.
That my muscles would
Atrophy.
And my skin would become
Paper thin.
All for the sake of exposing the calcified lattice
That holds me together.
Holds me down.
I have wished to see my ribs
So that I could better understand the bars that my heart
Beats so fiercely against.
I have wished my spine to rise from beneath sinew
Form peaks against my skin
Just so I can see
What makes a man
What backbone is
See what makes me
Stand
Against those things that I do not desire.
Yet here I am.
Synapses stretched between
Head
And
Heart
Eyes sundered, seeing what my heart can't take.
What my fragile fingers fail to grasp.
I am a graveyard.
Made of stars that decided they were meant for other tasks.
Rub your charcol across my bones
Just to see what stories the universe has told.
For it has lived and died a thousand times, and now
And now, this time around it chooses to call this body
Home.
So although there are days I wish my hip bones would rise like
Mountains
In the desert,
That this soft skin would part and give
Rise
To bones like Aspen trees,
I will accept that my
Clavicles
Are the bottom of the sea bed.
And I am
Mile
Upon
Mile
Of stormy ocean.
Still waiting to explored.

I am stuck
In a maze of empty corridors
Lined with a thousand mirrors
Distorted and evil
And all staring at me.
When I look into the first mirror,
I do not see myself.
I see a malformed human
Staring back at me.
Ugly.
Fat.
Unlovable.
With blue pools of sadness
That well up
And drip tears of helplessness.
I am scared.
So I run.
But I stop a few mirrors down
Because I see another girl
with bruised skin
And cut cheeks.
She has been beaten.
But by whom?
I am scared.
So I run.
But again I am distracted
By another girl.
She sits alone, naked.
With wrists that are red
And thighs that drip the same.
She has been cut.
But by whom?
I am scared.
So I run.
I want to leave.
But the exit eludes me.
I start to panic;
I don't know what to do.
So I sit down
And cry.
But I hear a voice
Calling out my name.
So I run towards it.
But it's dark.
It's so dark.
Where is this person?
I run past another mirror,
And there is yet another girl
Who looks just like me
But happier.
Prettier.
Loved.
She is the one calling my name.
She wants to help me,
And yet she can't reach me
Through these mirrors I've created
For myself.
I am unreachable.
So I walk away
And, seeing an empty mirror,
I climb in,
And I am transformed into
A malformed self-image of a girl
Who has been beaten by her thoughts
And carved by her own hand.
And I want to go back.
I am scared.
So I try to run.
But I can't.

I am stuck in this hell I've made for myself.

you filter every pixel pore
you angle yourself thin

my darling, which
do you love more?

the ******* the screen
or the girl in your skin?

We all have seen
people,
places,
and different situations
that questions
everything we have learned,
believed,
seen,
and heard.
It is up to us whether to
label those things
as mere fallacies,
or to uphold them
as utter truths.
But this isn't always the case.
The process of acceptance
is not always easy.
It involves a lot of self-berating,
self-loathing,
listless moments,
melancholic states,
and finally,
reluctant adaption,
to the current norms,
notion,
and societal views,
that forces us to change
our views,
our versions of truths,
our perception of reality,
and our own self-image.
We must always beware
those situations; let it not
deter you.
For, dear, you are
what you are,
and what you believe;
your conviction,
your truths,
your freedom from
these mind-altering moments,
will not be taken away from you.
Do not let yourself
be washed away
by the waves of
fanaticism.