bandaid.

it’s like, this pressure
and the inevitable
disappointment –
both his and mine –
somehow worthless;
yet when i look,
she is no more
intriguing or attractive.

can’t eat, want to sleep;
can’t dance, want to die.
the mirror mocks me
and the pressure builds;
more powerful by the day.
“i like to fix things.”
please stop trying
to fix me.

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