I often find myself pacing in my room, regretting the days choices. My feet tapping to the beat of Mr Blurryface reminding me of the past I tried so desperately wish to forget.
I wish Mr Blurryface would just leave me be so I can destroy the fucks I give about what people think. I often have to look up when I dress, not wanting to look at my fat infected body that have grown to hate.
Mr Blurryface made my mirror my enemy, a blur where my face should be while my body is focused and taunting me and shouting that the image I so desperately want is not coming any time soon.
From now on, i only see the back of my mirrors.
YOU ARE READING
Inside The Writer's Notebook
RandomA collection of my works too short to be published by themselves.
