In the Depths of Self-Doubt

I wonder sometimes.

What do you see

when you look at me?

My faults and crimes,

or the clouds in my eyes?

A broken woman,

so irresistibly human?

When I contemplate

everything I hate

about myself,

I can’t help but feel small and old,

withered and gross.

And the shame, it consumes me

as my darkness is exhumed,

and I feel exposed.

Am I a vision of weakness,

of pathetic meekness?

A phony failure,

a delusion of grandeur?

I can never be sure.

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