What part of me, is the worst part of me,
Is something that I am I wondering of late,
As I walk the trails through trees and troubles,
I listen to the voice that I truly and deeply hate,
It is a dumb and vain thing to hate oneself,
Paradoxically,
It's too high, too low, too soft, too loud,
Distinct enough to get you laughed at,
Indistinct enough to be forgettable,
Or is it my nose? Oh yes, there's a lot I could say,
It's too pushed in, it's too pointed out,
It's too rounded and the nostrils gape,
It's too low hanging like a bunch of grapes,
Or is it my eyes? Too asymmetrical.
Or is it my ears? Too hairy.
Or is it my lips? Too big.
Little things that keep me up at night,
That make me wonder and watch my every move,
With caution, suspicion and uber-oversight,
Without a sense of perspective to keep my reality in check,
Maybe in actuality there's nothing wrong with me,
Maybe in actuality everyone else is also like me,
Maybe in actuality nobody is watching what I do,
Not that I'll ever know,
Not that I'll ever ask,
But at least for today, I can say without a doubt,
Yeah, I should probably shave my peach fuzz,
Because if there's something that I'm certain
about myself that is imperfect:
It is me
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