chrysanthemums and other forgotten creatures

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every morning i wake up,

and watch the sun pour through my window.

i walk over to my mirror, lined with pictures of faces i haven't seen in a while,

and meet the eyes of a girl staring back at me.

i look at her waist, thinking how

it should be much smaller, because that's what boys like,

and her face, dotted with blemishes,

could be so clear if only she tried,

and her chest, well, she'll have to be curvy then, if she wants anyone to notice her,

and her hair, how it doesn't seem to lay straight, even when she brushes it, how it

doesn't shine like the other girls,

and i'd tell her, let her hear my criticisms,

but the tears on her cheeks tell me that maybe

she already knows.

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