prose

Antithesis

So this is what it feels like—seeing yourself in the mirror crystal clearly. It’s too clear now. I am too emotional. Too dependent. I need it all the time. I want it all the time. But I already get it all the time. This is what it feels like to see your whole world fall away to the bare skeleton that it actually is—it’s not clean, white, pristine—no, there’s still shiny, crimson ligaments and tendrils dangling, dripping off the bony structures. It feels as if you’re slowly stripping away your skin before reaching underneath to pick off the  rest of the musculature bits. And I can’t see clearly now. Everything is too blurry, tinged in distortion and conflict. So much of me does not want to believe that what I am discovering is true. A part of me wills it to retreat back and ignore it. Why did I have to find out now? I was lying to myself this entire time. This whole time. This whole time I was the fake, the liar—the thing that I hate most.

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