When I look in the mirror

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a face.

I see flaws.

And they are magnified, exaggerated until I am consumed by imperfection.

I am an imperfection.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see two eyes.

I see the exhaustion escaping through the slits in my face.

I see purple circles and the wrinkles of a forced smile.

When I look in the mirror,

I don’t see skin.

I see the scars from every moment of weakness.

I see imperfection seeping through my pores.

Through every blemish, every freckle.

Every flaw.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a body.

I see every indulgence, every meal.

My hands automatically pinch the fat on my stomach.

As if the touch of my fingers would melt it all away.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see me.

And I don’t know if that will ever change