There are times I look in the mirror and like what I see, but more oft than not I despair. Concavity of thought produces a skewed reflection, of self, of worth. I take a picture and cry at the image that greets me, every flaw noted so I may torture myself to the point of self loathing. I crop the image to cut out the imperfections, edit it so that it’s no longer me. Only then I am I happy to show myself, hidden behind the mask of an alternate reality. I try on pretty things and repeat the process, but I simply make the pretty things look ugly, and in despair these things are discarded, I don’t deserve to wear them.
The casual observer may be under the delusion that it’s pure vanity which drives this desire towards the aesthetics, but the motivation is far more grotesque than that. When one believes their worth is directly linked to their outward appearance, nothing will deter them from the path of self destruction, for no one can ever live up to the ridiculously high expectations they set for themselves in that respect.

I can’t look anymore at the image which greets me, in person, or on camera, so I cover my eyes, and take myself to a place where I believe myself beautiful.

But reality bites, and I never stay there for long.

 ~

I’m sorry to myself.
My apologies begin here before everybody else.
I’m sorry to myself.
For treating me worse than I would anybody else.
~
Alanis Morissette – Sorry To Myself

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Sinful Sunday