Crooked nose, crooked smile, crooked face?

Blonde hair, blue eyes, pale daze.

That girl in the mirror wants to know who she is, but appearances are not the embodiment of identity.

It’s that feeling— like when you repeat a single word over and over until it no longer makes sense, and loses all meaning. Just a grouping of letters that have been rearranged into nonsense. If you look at yourself long enough, the same phenomenon presents itself.

I look like any other person. Two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. But not everyone uses those features in the same way.

I use my eyes— not only to see, but to find familiarity and recognize emotions that I have experienced, in others. My nose, not only to smell, but to breathe in, and feel crisp air reach down and branch off into the entirety of my lungs. My mouth, not only to taste, but to purse together and form the very words I am using to write now.

I see parts of myself that no one else would ever see. A flipped image, not only metaphorically, but literally.

That’s the beauty of the mirror, but with that, it also has it’s downfalls. The face that I see, is not the face that others see, and it never will be.

Learning to embrace that fact, is the hard part.

I think you've ruined me

in a way that doesn't quite hurt

as much as it suffocates sweetly.

There's something about

looking back on everything you've said

and finally seeing each lie

as they scraped your bottom lip

on the way out.

I think I was addicted

to the taste of your blood

when I kissed you.

It seemed to mingle well

with my tears

and stained my lips just enough

to mark your territory

as the summer home

that seemed more fun

when you were younger.