I look at myself in the mirror,

Myself within the mirror,

Myself hating the mirror.

It’s late at night as I examine my face,

My hair a brown that isn’t a good enough black.

Good enough.

I’m not good enough.

My skin pale yet olive under the white light, my eyes squinting as I stare at my blemishes.

And I pick,

I pick,

I pick,

I pick at it until I bleed.

I harass it until blood cries down.

I’ll do the same thing tomorrow and after and after the day after tomorrow.

It’s a destructive cycle.

Judging, pulling apart, judging, pulling apart.

Perfection can’t be achieved without pain, right?

I’ll fail forever and continuously.

It’s good enough, as long as I think I’ll once be good enough.