Funhouse

I don't like to stare too long at myself in the mirror.

I notice the tan lines, and the shrinking of my breasts,

and I turn away.

I do not know what I look for.

Bruises that do not exist. Taut-flesh that hangs loose.

I look for some proof of what I went through.

Scars I was unfamiliar with bubble up years later under scrutiny,

and I curl a lip.

What do I have to show for this?

I know I haven't gained that much weight, or lost that much muscle, and my skin cant truly look this dull so quickly. But I see through funhouse eyes, at a genocidal body.