Self

When no one else, no other
invites a salvation of murmuring – we
fly inside our greatest friend.
Reliant, compliant, a selfless deity.
one with whom to share a hope
futile yearning dreams a
truth unbounded- aware,
a central core, a being inherent in a soul of
rumoured emptiness.
No other, no one else can
share this awareness, yet still
plaintive mews of loathing fester.
This self a continual me, although
a quintessential earth within.
Reflecting images reveal what I despair,
recoil in utter contempt. Why will
this mirror so savagely lie?
In my depths I visage perfection,
no lumpen mass of swollen, pitted flesh
media moulded images and anorexic bliss,
cheerful protrudant bones declare with
selfish pride an existence I
can but crave.
This is how we say you should
look. This is how clothes should be….
No sagging/scarring/lumps/bumps/
scratches/bags/bruises/freckles/
blackhead pits.
Airbrushed into infinity we fail
this image detonator, starve
the frame into submission –
but it’s never enough.
He can claim transcension over
Misery – I cannot accept
my reality – why should I let
image dictate? But we do…. Women
believe.
Suck in that stomach. Banish those
bingo wings, botox your bags and
we swallow it all.
Our real self denied in plastic hell
we distort in the name of vanity –
drown our souls for what?
A photograph? An illusion – yet
ignore what we are. We lie
to our power, the one we know best, who’s
there to share the dreams, eternal
always; we rarely accept this sense of
who we are.
Banish mirrors – let our eyes reflect
reality – our selves dictate.
No. For all my vaunted honesty, for
all my flights inside – I am no
different after all.
Features squeezed, tweezed, plucked
and painted, the self packed for ever
in a suitcase hidden by deception.