When I round the corner,

and touch my nose to the real, cold glass of my bathroom mirror,

I am faced with everything I've ever tried to cover up.

My skin that's pale and reminds me of my father,

(so I hate it more than I should)

My chapped lips,

My connect-the-dot pimples, 

and my dark circles that make me out to be a haunted house.

I look around at this parallel universe of faults,

that echoes a chill and bloody narration:

That I am just a person.

When  I round the corner,

and touch my nose to the real, cold glass of my berated bathroom mirror, 

I can practically taste the premature salt on my lips

practically feel the vibrations in my throat.

That, no matter how I want to be pristine,

I will always be just another person.