Tales of Torment: A Fatal Scale

the scale i weigh myself on,

is proving to be fatal

yet here i stand,

by imaginary competition's demand-

what i say to myself,

and what hatred's mirror yells to my face

have never been the same-

i belong to the mask on my face

like an imposter playing a game charades,

i have a thousand names,

but am identified by the number of accolades on my shelf

and can't help but fixate on that of others

my joy rests in comparison's grave-

bathed in insecurities,

flowers of fear grow from what the falling rain says to me

i'm left chasing the wind in the same how night chases the day

perfection's curse, has never been tamed

anything less can only be shamed

i know that's not the case,

but the dust in the trophy case shows something else

my worth is no less than anyone else,

but the the empty shelf says something else

comparison, is a fatal scale, yet here i am-

i want to agree with love's library,

but the vocabulary of hatred's mirror tells me something else

i know love isn't performance based,

but the imaginary stage displays something else

here i stand, in hatred's mirror

to perfection's wish,

from rejection's prophecy,

under anxiety's supervision,

and competition's demand

stranded, on this fatal scale