My ex self

Dear me, goodby.

I didn't know it was him. The lights were dim and my heart clouded my judgment. I could not hear over the sound of the beating. Closer and closer his hand inched toward me. A brush of contact. Bare intensity. It was only his hand. Only my hand. Then I touched his face. Only then did I realize it was me. He disappeared and I stroked a reflection.
I didn't know what I was telling myself. I was looking into the eyes of imagination. Dreaming of a life that could be erased by a heartbeat and solved by a slide of hand. Fingers caressing the package that encompasses my soul. The body does not protect the soul. The body is what invites the torment in. Bringing these nightmares closer to me where I cannot escape them.
I want to lean into myself. Find my secrets buried beneath the torment. Buried beneath the darkness that was formed by clouds if judgment and self hatred. Taught from birth that despising yourself is normal and happiness is rare.
But those eyes. Those eyes were mine. That touch was mine. He may not of been real, but I am real. My emotions are real. Look at me, this moment is real. My hand is no longer on the mirror, I have moved it to my face. These features were created with purpose. A story to tell or a truth to learn. I am a journey not yet ended and not yet begun. In this moment I am infinite. In those eyes, my eyes, I find acceptance and beyond the touch, my touch, I find refuge. My enemy is myself; so close yet so far away. Dysthymia defiling success stories in ways you can't imagine. My mirror. Drawing me to it to pull me away. This isn't my imagination. This isn't my dream. Dear me, goodby.

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