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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
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![]() I wipe off my makeup With a small, rough cloth. I use no water, No chemicals. My tears are enough. I slide the fraying fabric Down just half of my face. Take a deep breath, Look up And find the disgrace On one side is the mask;
Beautiful and refined. What they want And expect, Far from what's behind. On the other side is dirt; Flawed, blotchy, a mess; Bringing looks Of disgust. Pitiful and worthless. I look away from the mirror To avoid it for a while. A shudder, A sob. I fight back the bile. With a swallow and a deep breath, I turn back to see the stranger. She's still there And stares back, Eyes haunted, sensing danger. I stand my ground, resolve holding And look at her in thorough scrutiny. I look at the perfect side, I look at the flawed side. And now I think I see more truthfully. I look back to the mask: It's the cowards way out. Sharp, petty. Hard, fake. A magazine cutout. Look at anyone; it's the same, Trying to meet specific standards: Dark eyes, pale skin, Red lips, pink cheeks: Mind-slaves missing any candor. I look back to the other side, Looking less fearfully to that face. Now I'm curious, Intrigued. How had this girl lost the race? Taking in this new perspective, I feel my world flip as I stare. She's simple, humble, Soft, and real. Beautiful. Unique. Perfect. Rare. Tears fill and warp my vision still, Though now with a much different mood. I smile Then laugh. I could get used to this change in attitude. Looking back at myself As in confidence I bask, I turn on the faucet, Rinse the cloth, And finally take off the mask. Comments are closed.
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Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
May 2023
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