Hate This Skin

I wouldn't necessarily call this a reflection of self anymore, it was real five years ago when I crafted it. I am a lot better now, well, a bit better now. But I like this poem, it reminds me of how far I have come, and gives vanity a little perspective.

If I could splinter this mirror into shards
Reflective and melancholy in floating destruction,
I'd feeling the pain that shatters on my cold floor
Around my bare feet
In between my toes I would see myself
A thousand times more and again and back
And hate this skin
And hate this mirror
For why am I owed a reflection of self?
When I offer myself no respect
For I am the names you call me
I am the hate you give me
And reflected in my face and eyes
Is the hate you'd have swallowed
The serrated truth you offer and mock
And realise that I will
Hate this skin
Hate this mirror
Through fault and detail that you nor care for
Or respect
Or understand
Or try to understand
Or want to understand
So random in my precision and care
Red or not
White or auburn burnt on me
And writhing in me like a worm in reflection
As caustic as me in this bile I dwell within
Consumed by this image presented by shards of broken
Seven year old glass maybe
Is that the rub here?
Is this the reason I was made to
Hate this skin
Hate this mirror
Hate you?

The End

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