The mirror reflects imperfection and inadequacy. Every time i converse, from the very moment the word leaves my lips, the flecks of spittle form, i feel self conscious about the content, the context, how it sounds, the shape of my mouth when it goes and the insecurity and flux drive me insane.
And that laugh. That smile. The dead smile and the flat laugh. I can tell that you don’t find me charming, amusing, whatever you cherish above all of these human conditions. Your eyes are always that much dimmer, your laugh, almost moribund when we talk. When i see it, i feel it seeping into every fucking pore, clogging my every orifice, making me that bit smaller, that bit more withdrawn.
I feel frustrated. There are no redeeming characteristics, nothing to fall back on - no safety net. There is just this. This stubborn piece of plasticine.
