Not Worth It

Someone once told me the attention of a faceless coward is not worth dying for.

Even though everywhere I look, billboards and commercials tell me it is.

Others have bodies chiseled as if rapids carved them.

Others have hair that skips through breeze as if oxygen tickles their scalp.

Something I am not meant to own and I became jealous of the conventional.

I find the perfect mirror that shifts my nose to everyone’s liking.

Stretch my skin back pre-sling shot.

Inflated my ass and rocketed the size of my penis.

Beauty is something that I always want to see.

Mirrors do not lie; they show me more than what is just on the outside.

The mirror reminds me that "perfect" is something I will never be.

May I remind you that mirrors are also hypocrites?

They say you need to be exact, a replica, never a knock-off.

So then, I decide to punch my mirror in and shards of glass bust my hand.

My face no longer belongs to my body so then I change my ways.

I obsess over the fact that I will never be what everyone else wants to achieve.

Runaway, faster than creatures that lay closer to the ground.

Find the top of a mountain; take a seat at the cliff.

Let the space between myself and the bottom of the mountain whisper.

It is worth dying for.

I am trapped.

The grip of a stranger holds me in place.

I scream as tears start to waterfall past my cheeks.

The stranger incarcerates the liquid in a vile, locks it, and places it in my lap.

I will capture every tear in a jar to remind you that the vines that constrain you are not worth dying over.