Mirror, Mirror

I look in the mirror and I don’t like what I see:

The ghosts of my past are staring back at me.

I look at my face. It looks too round, too round.

Thanks to the pressures of society, I feel like I’ve drowned.

I look at my stomach. These ghosts tell me that I’m fat.

How did I get to this point that I’m at?

I remember many of the times that people have called me a twig.

I feel conflicted, so I must dig, dig, dig

Deeper, looking inward, asking the question,

How, oh how, can I get out of this depression.

I look in the mirror, into my eyes

Eyes, the windows into our souls, are supposedly so wise.

Yet due to my pain, I must wear a disguise.

I can’t let everyone see who I really am inside,

I can’t let them see how often I’ve cried.

They say real men don’t cry,

So their true emotions, they must deny.

Me? I’m an outsider. I let myself feel.

But far too often, that opens wounds that don’t heal.

I feel so alone. As Papa Roach sang, I just wanna be loved.

Yet, more often than not, from others I am emotionally shoved

Away. I am rejected in every sense of the word,

be it as a friend, or more. Haven’t you heard?

I’m a loser, that’s what the ghosts tell me:

“nobody likes you, don’t you see?”

“Your father didn’t really love you. If he did, he would have treated you better.

Classic dad, the great upsetter.”

Thanks to him, I’ve got more problems than I can say.

To cope with it, my mind focuses on how much I weigh.

The ghosts tell me that will decide

if I’ll have friends and if I’ll find success in romance. For far too long, I’ve used this as my guide.

I ran, I skipped meals, I obsessed over my appearance. I won’t lie, on bad days I still do.

Oh, if only I could end this internal civil war. On one side, I’ve had a breakthrough.

A tiny part of me thinks that there’s more to life than how I’ve been living it.

On the other hand, the ghosts still chain me down, I must admit.

When I feel like an outsider, when a girl rejects me,

The ghosts speak up. “You’re a loser, don’t you agree?”

And my mind takes me back to middle school, to all of the bullying and the pain.

How could kids be so inhumane?

“Hey, fatty!” and, “You’re so ugly,” were some of their favorite lines.

I couldn’t go to the teachers; they’d just say, "That kid whines."

The pain presented itself in different ways. Nobody wanted to be friends with me. I was cast aside.

Girls hated the site of me and instantly rejected me, every time I tried.

I was the fat kid. Thanks to the cruelty of some kids, the ghosts tell me that I still am.

They’re always whispering, “You’re a loser.” Damn.

Some days I just want to scream.

“Why, oh why, am I cursed with such terrible self-esteem?”

I just want to wake up; oh, how I hope this is all a dream. Doesn’t that seem extreme?

Please, pinch me, wake me up, doesn’t anyone care?

I can’t breathe, I feel trapped in this despair. After all, life is unfair.

It’s not a dream, it’s a living nightmare. Freddy Krueger doesn’t haunt me.

Rather, it’s the constant feeling of being alone, and that I always will be.

Being bullied made me who I am today. So, that makes me

Awkward, withdrawn because I assume nobody likes me.

It’s a vicious cycle, isn’t it?

I just want to be liked, to be loved. Yet, the ghosts make me feel like a misfit.

These ghosts, of my bullies and of my father, won’t let me be happy.

I’m not sorry if you think that’s sappy.

These ghosts torment me. They chain me down; they prevent me from getting what I want.

What’s that, you ask? Simply a confidant

Someone that doesn’t run away screaming when I lift this mask that I wear.

This mental mask, that hides my pain from others. Give me a chance, don’t look elsewhere.

My past is responsible for the ghosts that haunt me. It also makes me who I am. I am rare.

I am a man that isn’t afraid to feel. I am trying to break free of the chains hold us down.

I’m coming up for air. No longer do I drown.

In life, I want one thing:, I want to be happy. I also want to share that with others.

I’d find a person that accepts me for who I am, if I had my druthers.

I want a person to help me silence these ghosts and break free of these chains.

Together, we could be free. We could soar like airplanes.

The mask is off. This is who I am.

There are probably many of you that are thinking, “Can we get back to our regularly scheduled program?

You probably think I’m weird, stupid even, for being this vulnerable to the entire internet,

Completely opening up to countless people that I haven’t even met.

But that’s the point. I’m tired of hiding who I am. I’m tired of pretending,

Tired of being someone that cares about blending.

I want people to see the real me. I’m proud of that.

I’m not sorry if this doesn’t match society’s typical format.

Now that you can see the real me,

I can say that I feel free.