I’m not amazing. I don’t know why you even think that I am. It’s the lust and the love blinding you to my flaws. I don’t have any love for myself, and therefore I can see my own flaws. I see the dullness behind my washed out eyes; I see the blemishes within my skin. How can you not see what is right in front of you, I’ve never understood it. I’m far from perfect; in fact, I’d go as far as to say that I’m imperfection personified. The disguised judgments made on a first impression hidden by the made-up eyes, hiding my short-comings. The hundreds of hidden sins created by a secret, concealed by the sands of time; and yet seen by all who can see beyond; yet still, you see me as fantastic. What about me can you not see? Can you not see the dried mascara tears, the blood shot eyes, seen by the moon as I wallow in self pity. Is it all hidden from view, masked by the emotions and the limitations of love?

Someone once asked of me, what I saw when I looked in the mirror, ‘depends on the time my dear’ was the curt reply. For you see, Mr. Blind with His Love and Desire; at 3am, I’m a mess, riddled with shame for my past and my present, tears washing away any possible forgiveness. Yet at 10am, I’m freshly done, the images of the night washed away and hidden by foundation and powder, to soften the harshness of my skin, and a blush, a lie of innocence long stolen. At 4pm, I’ll be laughing and smiling, with a group of happy people, our song of joy ringing out to all around, louder than the humming of misery and pain. At 11pm I’ll be a little worse for wear, a few beverages in my body by then, a few tears shed, hidden by the darkness of the night; no-one’s ever any wiser. Back again we are at 3am, the cycle of my life, of hiding and lying. Yet you, who should know me better than most, still thing I’m amazing, fantastic and pretty; why are you blind to my flaws, my insecurities. Do you not see my disgust at other people, acting so juvenile or rude, or is it hidden by a sigh and a possible giggle; am I so good at acting I’ve even shown you up. The man who loves me, knows me doesn’t see my truth? I’m not amazing. I’m not even nice. I’m not fantastic, nor pretty nor good. Yet you don’t see it, you just see what everyone else sees, but with rose coloured glasses.