Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Wicked Game

I brush my hair. I wipe the tears off my computer but let them run down my face; sometimes into my hair, sometimes over my lips so I can drink them. Blessed are the tears for they make me feel alive... alive when I am so dead.

I'm praying that this might just be another time in which she is underestimating me, another time in which my own self-image is tainting her view... because if it is not then I am hopeless and there is nothing more.

I brush my hair and I look at the shadow I cast over my grey walls. It's not an unpleasant silhouette, that of my hair falling over my hair. I suppose I am not unpleasant sight. I suppose I can still live upon delusions of beauty now and again, as if behind the veil of my hair or the elusive quality of a shadow I can begin to believe I am beautiful... I am worthy...

I promise myself I won't touch the mirror, but I'll keep my gaze fixed only on my eyes which are beautiful by themselves and I'll try not to think of the rest as I wonder if anyone would ever love me...

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