There is a labyrinth of colours inside me, that emit a fraudulent sense of comfort.
With disdain in my eyes, I look away from the mirror rebuking myself for being a symmetrical mess. Reprimanding myself, for being more, yet being less.
Underneath the censures there is a frail hope quavering, I reluctantly look back into the glass and I find it fading.
I have always failed to acquaint with differences and otherness. Not in others, but in myself. In accepting the variety in me, I’ve always seemed to need help.
Standing amidst this kaleidoscope of my being, I have only wished I was one colour.
Drowning in the guilt of smothering myself I break the mirror. Never having to look at myself again. Never having to explain
I almost believe I have my escape, but as I walk out, I see myself reflecting through the skies and I realise, you cannot run from yourself, no matter how hard you try.