Vanity
Vain, we see our images,
Like flickered candles in the wind.
They change and fade and mask themselves,
Until they are unrecognizable.
Twisted into the shattered perceptions of
Who’s, what’s, when’s, where’s and why’s.
Is it really all that strange
When we look into the reflection in the mirror,
We can’t do anything but cry?
Prodding us, pawning us and picking out our insecurities,
Don’t they know that we already know and realize?
That the worst kind of warfare is the emotional kind.
Where we look at ourselves until the fabric of our minds is no longer seamlessly knit together
Until the scars we carry with us become deep wounds, sealed over with the despair of an internal war.
Until our bodies turn into phantoms of who we used to be, void of self-love and care.
That they are beautiful and hand-crafted by God
That they are both weak and strong, fragile and resilient.
Yet, the world tells us differently.
How easily we exchange our self-worth for a like,
To be valued in the eyes of those who don’t know us
To put that mask of self-interest, self-promotion and self-admiration.
Be careful, for this is just a delusion
Where you’ll forget who you really are and uphold the illusion.
Image via Lenka Ulrichova, Darling Issue No. 17
