I will always think I'm not enough.
My body holds all my compressed failures.
Like seeing myself through a fun house mirror.
There's always some distortion there.
It's easier to count mistakes that way.
The spot on the surface that dared to linger,
now finds its place as a tick on the finger.
Unhindered by the sudden change.
There's always that one wrong line,
whether it be on my face or my painting,
that has me scrutinise me existing
in this world in the first place.
I'm not an imposter, I am a full on mistake.
Fraud, as a word, will simply never cut it.
It requires my skin to at least fit
snugly around the things I am hiding.
No, I am obstinate in my disillusionment
that my self hatred deserves better.
But I can't even think of a word to get her.
I reckon this poem won't be worthy.
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