My empty nods and distracted eyes enunciate my inability to care for another.
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Why care for another when I could just control them? Selfish, am I.
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My neurotic control of everyone’s life utters the lack of control that I feel over my own.
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My 24hour lipstick spews judgments whose scars will last much longer.
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My picky salad folk pokes shame at women who love their bodies enough to eat.
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My shrinking waistline screams of what little love I have for myself. I desire to take up as little space as possible.
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My hidden diet pills whisper that I literally want there to be less of me …here.
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Here…now, which I’m not, ever. It’s 2020, haven’t I heard?
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It doesn’t sound like I had.
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My skindeep ways will only silence their progress.
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My indignance toward learning to mow the lawn proclaims my misogynistic views.
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My eye-roll at feminists speaks to how I desire to be, above all else, an objectified sexual object….when I could be so much more.
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My words are as fake as my breasts.
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My sense of self-worth? As synthetic as my cheekbones.
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I’m all about appearances, and
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My appearance is all that there is.
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The actions of another recently made me irate. I originally wrote the above in 2nd person toward her.
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I then remembered that others reactions and choices can serve (sometimes) as mirrors of ourselves.
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Was this the case?
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Was there something for me to learn here about me?
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Some, yes. This was me a decade ago. While there’s no plastic on the outside, a lot was synthetic on the inside.
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Empathy came easier and anger faded once I changed “you” to “I” & explored which of her vices we shared.