The Mirror

I stand before the mirror

And all I see is an error

A bloody X across my being

Telling me this ain’t worth seeing.

 

I push myself into a corner

Cloaked like a mourner

A foreigner

Contemplating fleeing.

 

I will not be your resurrection

Of a flawless daughter of society

I cannot be your imagination

Of proper propriety

Instead I shall seek perfection

In my own anxiety.

 

I am the dust beneath your feet

Aiding in your goal to meet

With cold hands a cobalt sheet

You are finally seeing.

 

This form was not manufactured for lusting.

This flesh was sculpted for trusting.

Maybe it is time we consider readjusting

Who we consider worth being.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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