Hair

I sit here staring at the ground.
My hair hangs around my face.
My hair doesn't seem my own.
I tug on it and my body feels pain,
confirming that this hair is mine.
The same hair I see everyday in the mirror,
but the mirror lies to me.

Like the reverse of a harvest moon,
I see too little when I look in the mirror.
But as Uncle Jerry said, "God, You've gotten huge!"
These eyes of mine deceive me.
I feel as if I am the shadow of my former self.
I am projecting that image onto the mirror.
I've finally perfected my hair,
but the rest of me is in disrepair.

Happiness is advertised as the public's reflection of everyone else's opinion.
Aspiring to minimize your size and maximize your best features.
I have fallen into a state of denial.
I'm rejecting anything that threatens to polish me.
I see myself through hair covered eyes.
I am leaving societal conventions shattered on the ground,
in the reflection of the scattered shards of my broken mirror.
Egressing back to happier food filled days,
asking no question of why I am this way.
I'm vexing my own weaknesses until
I end on a note of uncomfortable acceptance I cease to care.