Is it strange that I hate myself, weird that I adore those most different from me?
Struggling to escape the reflection of dispair, but my reflection just shows the shell of a woman who is no longer there.
The reflecting self, the power of our mind, the twisted war between what used to be and what is currently.
The reflection does not show our scars. The reflection does not show our pain.
The fucking reflection does not show the cracks in our soul. The cracks that can not be put back together once broken...
is it strange that i hate myself? Weird that adore the simple reflection?