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.
