My reflection speaks

It greets me each morning

It's the last thing I see before crawling into bed

it's what streams by a glassy window

it's what flashes before me several times a day.

It's what I touch

It's what I bear down on

It's what I punish

and what I exault

It's what I chastise

It's what I stretch

It's what I strengthen

It's what I poke and cringe at.

It's my reflection.

It's something never good enough.

It's something collagenous and supple...
in all the wrong places.

It's something I hide

And something I show

It's what I resent most of all

It causes my anxiety

I self consciously cover myself,
her body is better than mine.

Do I exist on the master grading scale?

Sometimes I feel my face isn't real,
and sometimes it's too real.

glossy pages,
I envision me in them, reflecting a radiant smile.

Beautiful.

Nobody gives a Sh*t about the insides,
and if I didn't, I'd snort coke.

But I don't.

Something inside makes me hold on, keeping this vision that I hate.
But if it's from the outside, how can I look at anything but my hands?

And I ask the reflection, "What is beauty?" And she smiles and responds,

I like my little toes.