Blurry Ideals

You are disgusting, I say to the fog covered version of myself.

I wipe away the fog in the hopes that it will remove everything I hate about myself with it.

She/he/they are still there when I look again.

I imagine what I want to see, collarbones and rib cages and cheekbones.

I want to feel my heart rattling against my collarbone.

I want to feel the butterflies in my stomach play my ribcage like an out of tune piano.

I want my cheekbones to grace my face like rain drops after a much needed rain.

I want to be beautiful.

Not just someone’s idea of beautiful but the worlds idea of beautiful.

I look again and the fog is back, obscuring, protecting, embracing the parts of myself I hate to love to hate.

I don’t clear it away this time, letting it’s protection slither over my reflection so I look almost beautiful.

I turn off the light.