to like myself, pretending that i did, but looking in the mirror grew more and more difficult.
life and death happened. books closed and new books with fresh pages opened for me to write the new part of my life on…and i have written. i can spin tales, smiling while i do, making everyone believe the lies are truth. everyone, that is, except for me.
i hate the mirror. when i do look at it, i hate what i see when my eyes travel lower than my face because that is when i see the truth. what i see and how i react to it? they’re neither one healthy. no, there’s no 