Who is that there?

That beautiful person,

Yes, you, gorgeous.

Perfection, I love you;

I love…myself.

Yes me 

With those cheekbones 

That could cut glass,

And that debonair smirk

And those luscious curls



Those scars?

Those dull, lifeless eyes?

Oh no, that cannot be me.

That horrid jawline,

Almost as weak as 

That self-control,
Which is almost as bad as 

That aching sadness

And ebbing anxiety

And meaningless future.

No, I do not love this reflection,

In fact I hate you;

I hate myself,

But I can’t seem to stop




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