All these words. All of them are bad. But they describe me. I believe more words describe me. But these are the most ‘important’ to me. These words have become a part of my identity, shaping how I perceive myself and how others perceive me. I will stop my self-consciousness and I will never think of myself as the perfect version that I could be. That perfect version of me stands in front of me in the mirror. She doesn’t look at me smiling, but instead, the look of disgust is perceptible. That look, full of obnoxiousness and poison. I stand there, frozen, as the reflection of my ideal self stares back at me with disdain. It's as if she knows all my flaws and weaknesses, mocking me silently through her piercing gaze. The disappointment in her eyes cuts deep, reminding me of all the ways I fall short of her perfection. But as much as she despises me, I can't help but feel a surge of resentment towards her too. She represents everything I strive to be but constantly fail to achieve. Her flawless appearance and unwavering confidence only serve to highlight my insecurities and self-doubt. The toxic energy emanating from her presence fills the room, suffocating any remnants of self-acceptance that may have lingered within me. It's a constant reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never measure up to this unattainable standard set by my own imagination. I ball my hands up into fists and aim at the mirror, not caring if the glass pierces my skin. I don’t care if I am blinded. I don’t care if I am hurt, all I care for now is the perfect version of me dying at my hands. I mean my fists. The glass breaks into fragments and I don’t realize the streak of blood coming out from my fists until I fall to the glass covered floor. I cry, not because it hurts, instead I cry because that perfect version of me is still watching me. She’s terrified, and broken in pieces, her flawless image broken and now she's a terrified young woman who can't catch a break, can't sleep, and is depressed and anxious all the time. I ball my hands up into fists and aim at the mirror, not caring if the glass pierces my skin. I don’t care if I am blinded. I don’t care if I am hurt, all I care for now is the perfect version of me dying at my hands. I mean my fists. The glass breaks into fragments and I don’t realize the streak of blood coming out from my fists until I fall to the glass covered floor. I cry, not because it hurts, instead I cry because that perfect version of me is still watching me. She’s terrified, and broken in pieces, her flawless image broken and now she's a terrified young woman who can't catch a break, can't sleep, and is depressed and anxious all the time. If I were to catch a break, and wasn’t depressed and tired and was able to sleep, I would be perfect. If I were to not look like a scrub and just cry when things didn’t go my way, then I would be perfect.
