Staring at myself in the mirror is unnerving.
I think of all the girls on tv:
graceful, muscled, beautiful.
Somehow they make freckles attractive
and their skin never seems to break out.
I, on the other hand,
bounce between face wash and dry skin,
wheeze every time I walk up stairs,
and trip on my own feet at random and frequent moments,
thank God for gravity.
The mirror - I can’t tell if it is lying to me or not.
I see what it shows me:
Awkward and nonexistent hips,
a decent pair of legs, hands calloused from guitar,
big brown eyes that blink from a square face.
The semi-awful family nose I’ve grown into,
the dark brown hair,
the bit of pudge around my waistline
that I’ve since accepted as my own,
my body in all it’s awkward glory.
I can feel my heart thump with dread and relief.
My body does not define me:
my looks will fade beneath a sea of wrinkles,
my eyes will get dull,
my hair will be silver like my grandmother’s.
My wit will still be just as strong,
my sass just as snarky,
my smile just as bright for those I deem worthy,
my petulant attitude with my sister and
my adoring, can-do-no-wrong view of my mother.
Staring at myself in the mirror is interesting:
I learn things about myself:
Not just physical, like the freckle on my chest,
but other things too,
like my philosophical nature.
In my rawest form, I cannot wait.
I cannot wait to share myself,
though it’s scary and embarrassing.
Someday, someone will come to me
and know everything.
I am bursting with my little quirks, eager to give.
All the things that make me:
my addiction to anime and art,
and all things pop punk and screamo -
the louder it is, the better!
I can be impatient when waiting - for anything.
I bite my lip and my nails
and even my shirt when I’m nervous,
and my leg couldn’t stop moving
even if I was at gunpoint.
I can’t help but be a hopeless romantic, cynic, and philosopher.
It’s a never-ending cycle:
I’ll find somebody someday.
No I won’t, I’m alone.
Being truly alone would be a horrid thing indeed, but I am not.
They all betray my thoughts,
But I can’t find myself minding very much.
After all, this is all me:
every last, weird, beautiful, awkward bit.
And, raw like this: I love being me.