I feel like crying. My face is a boiling blood of tears. I struggle to control emotions of sadness, pain and empty fears. Why do I look into the mirror and see a little girl lost, pleading in my eyes to stop. How do I comfort melancholy musing and soothe a beauty lost.
How do my eyes deceive me. With visions of unworthiness. They praise the workaholic culture who models habits of deprival. Project runway in self critique becomes the shortcut to self hate. Shamefaced, afraid, half-hearted we worship death instead of harmony.
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