Aim

It is another one of those early mornings when hatred spews out of my body
and aims for itself,
I never miss.

I have always been good at reaching targets,
even better when I myself am bulls-eye
I shoot directly for the mirror
Into my thighs, my chest, this mountain range of a body
I send my angry in a direct path towards my folds,
my stomach, my skin, in all that is human.

I launch bombs on my own territory like it’s what I’ve been sent to do,
Like I was made to destroy what I have spent my whole life building.
I ask why it so easy
To rip apart the things I’ve put together myself
I ask why it feels so normal
To want to break down the rafters of the only shelter I will ever be able to use for protection.

I blame everything else before I blame me
I blame the girls with bodies like sunsets,
that contrast my mid-day average sky of a figure
I blame the dresses that I cannot fit into,
the way they suck the life out of me every time I can’t stretch them past my hips.
I blame genetics with absolutely no knowledge of science behind me.

I want to blame society
for the hate that has been multiplying inside of me
but at the end of the day I am still the one who does the math
It is still me who pours self-deprecation over my head
To shower in all of the things I cannot wash out
It is still me who incites hurricane
Upon every part of myself that is impossible to change by nature.

I am the one who detonates my disappointments
like the explosion will somehow change the way I look,
like the aftermath of destruction will leave me with anything but empty and wreckage.

I often forget that it is me who spoon-feeds myself memories of failure at every meal
It is me who hands over guilt every time I reach for the snooze button to fall back asleep
I even shove myself in fault to depression,
cover myself in darkness and then wonder why there is no light to be seen
I am the culprit in it all.

In the mornings when my mind is still circling
to figure out where it left off, I point it in the direction of negative
I take all of the crooked and pile it up to remind myself of the mismatch
When I take aim at my reflection, I never miss.

I direct the sniper of my mistakes, vulnerability and insecurity
directly towards my image
I have become the hit man of my own assassination
My fall into disaster is wholeheartedly my own doing
I am the best of the best when it comes to this form of damage,
I never miss.