| Written: SEPT 14, 2003 |
Is it narcissism
Drawing forth that evil grin?
How can one love themselves,
Or seem to, when they hate themselves?
Is that what the practitioners of anorexia
Deem so beautiful?
Your bag of bones body,
With your prominent muscle
But lack of health to go with it.
Veins teeming with energy
As worms fueled with blue air itself.
An admiring glace turns to critical
Inspection of too many flaws;
Distain for the form begins,
With a laugh that it isn’t perfect.
What kind of man would suffer
Such a body and face?
But the eyes tell the sad tales,
And I look at my own in the silvered
Metal mirror and think of the boy become
This retched man, the me.
The sad little you across from me.
