Here I am again examining my disfigured figure in the mirror.
Fondling my fat wishing I could trim it down with a pair of scissors.
Relentlessly poking, prodding and picking at my face.
Leaving behind nothing but a black, coarse and scabby trace.
Furiously patting down my cheeks begging them to be smaller.
Standing on the edge of my toes willfully imagining that I am taller.
Folding my ears inwards commanding them to decrease in size.
Hysterically trying to find the beauty they said existed in my eyes.
Scrutinizing my nose using my hands to mould it into my desired shape.
Impatiently withdrawing my stomach to wonder how I would look if I lost some weight.
Slapping my overlapping thighs repeatedly, persuading them to become firmer.
Grasping the pair of scissors at my throat with the intent of committing my own murder.
Thinking to myself how can anyone ever find me remotely attractive?
And how can I ever expect myself to be regularly sexually active.
With me looking the way I do.
Gazing into this same mirror wishing I wasn't able to see through.
Desperately wanting to cut, rearrange and trade all of my features.
Beauty is not nor has it ever been in the eye of the beholder.
You should never trust the words of a blind and hypocritical preacher.