And the tears the run down my checks are foreign.
I do not know them.
I do not recall their taste.
Since when have I looked in the mirror and said,
Since when have I looked at my hands and said,
Since when have I spun and skipped and said,
This is good?
It's been a fight.
In inner struggle.
A fight with my demons.
The demons that tell me I am not good.
The demons that tell me vanity is my curse and that I should be ashamed.
The demons that know just what this soul is capable of.
And even so, even now, I doubt.
And I hate it. And I doubt.
