She Is Me.

I wake up at 5, 3 hours before school every day.

I spend 3 whole hours in the mirror every morning.

I Walk in, rinse my face, scrub with soap until my skin practically withers off,  dry my face, and repeat. Every morning.

Walk in, rinse, scrub, dry.

Walk in, rinse, scrub, dry.

Walk in. Rinse. Scrub. Dry.

I look in the mirror after the endless scrubbing yet my face still scars, my acne still screams, and my scabs still bleed.

Who is that in the mirror? 

Surely that’s not me.

I know I don’t carry that face of pure disgust everywhere I go with me.

Who is she?

Face green of envy.

She is her, but  I am me.

Yet truthfully I have to see, me is she, I am her, and she is me.

 

 

 

 The “She” in the mirror haunts me, everywhere I go.

Only being able to exist in the pain of lacking beauty and my body overflowing with sorrow

 Other girls beauty is “not my lack”,

 yet I wander around with a target on my back. 

A target scribbled with the words of my peers telling me what I’m worth and what number should be engraved on my price tag.

My price tag adds such a weight to my back, not because the price is hefty,but because the weight of my worth being described by one set of numbers is a weight I can only weakly and helplessly drag.

Both hands behind me gripped on the anchor weighing me down. 

I have to be careful and tread the water, or else I will drown.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the water that is slowly swallowing me whole, I don’t see myself ever making it out, the chances of my survival are slim to zero.

 All I see in the reflection is an insecure, self-effacing girl, weary as can be.  

God, please let me see that's not me.

I don’t want it to be, god tell me, who is she?

Face pink of ignominy.

She is her, but I am me.

 Yet truthfully I have to see me is she, I am her, And she is me.

 

 

“I’m a woman phenomenally”,

 but phenomenal woman is not me.

I’m tired of being told I'm pretty 

as if I wouldn’t buy a new face as soon as I was offered the chance for change.

I once lived in glory, I seem to have left those days behind.

 Flaunt my body right and left, left and right, 

never embarrassed of what composed the music to the confident sway of my stride.

 That stride now stripped down to a weak limp.

 I wish I was more. 

If my physical state was a class it would be poor, if I try to preach mind over matter will that change the fact that my smart mind doesn't make up for my ass not being fatter? 

I hope. I hope to find someone who gets me. 

Someone who can help me see that I shouldn’t be overlooking what makes me, me so blindly. Someone who understands how amazing I can truly be but how will I find that in someone else if I can’t even hold it in myself to love me?

 Can you see?

Can you see me?

 Can you open your eyes and see the difference between who I really am versus who I’m supposed to be? 

Can you try to guide yourself to understand why I try my hardest not to be aware of how I perceive me? I know how I project myself on social media but she is not me. She has an aura I hope to achieve when I learn to appreciate how I was truly meant to be. 

Who is she? 

 Face painted to make a new me.

  She is her, but I am.

Yet truthfully I have to see,  me is she, I am her, and she is me.

 

I wake up at 5, 3 hours before school every day.

I spend 3 whole hours in the mirror every morning.

Yet the rhythm of my routine does not repeat.

I walk in, rinse, scrub, dry, and cry. Just cry.

Walk in, rinse, scrub, dry, cry.

Walk in, rinse, scrub, dry, cry.

Walk in. Rinse. Scrub. Dry. Cry.

Just as always, my face still scars, my acne still screams, and my scabs still bleed.

Who is that in the mirror?

But I can’t lie anymore, I know exactly who I see.

I now know I carry that face of disgust everywhere with me.

I have to accept that is me.

Face red with a cry for help both physically and mentally.

  She is her, and the girl struggling in the mirror is me, 

yes, I remain to be me,

 but she will always define me no matter how hard I try not to see. 

I guess I have to admit, although I will never love her, 

me is she, I am her, and she is me.