Try
I've known a long time my reflection has become askew. A palate of colours I cannot stomach for too long.
But it hit me today, as I washed my hands and glimpsed myself, how deeply I loathe it. And it is no fault of my features, nor genetics. I have many times found myself beautiful, in a way that does not boast but simply soothes.
But tonight, my flesh is swollen with liquor, the lines on my face procuring and growing beyond their time due to the smoking.
Each time I try to quit, I will glance briefly at myself. Never long enough to feel guilt bleed in into cracks where childhood may play, but enough that it makes me feel determination grow.
That is not enough, I realize.
I need to feel the guilt. The regret. The rage of being 3 years old and my only worry an empty box, yet to be filled by easter chocolates. The aching pain of being a teenager with a horrid history and no one to hear me. I must feel their muted fists against my chest until it bruises. Their desperate attempts to save me when they could not save themselves.
I have drank, and drank, with the promise of doing better next time. But the second it upsets I give up. Why? Because it is hard?
I have done harder. I will try again, for the time past my years on this earth. I will try.