My scarred complexion. It casts pebbles at my appearance, corrode my self esteem.
And I have no defense.
People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, and I'm surrounded by mirrors. Blemish (mirror). Hair (mirror).
I've become such a product of acne products I produce more scars trying to dry erase my flesh free of the inconsistencies in my skin tone.
I hate my nose (mirror). I hate my cheekbones (mirror). Hated what I look like for so long now I hawked saliva at my reflection trying to find what it resembles in my spitting image.
But sometimes it wasn't always an esteem issue.
I found relief in reefer trees trying to silently get away from the high frequency cries for help in my subconscious with "loud," but that was all just, smoke in mirrors.
Mom tells me they'll just fade away. But what about the emotional scars?
I keep hearing that time heals all wounds, but you don't grow out of self-inflicted hate crimes.
Been at it for so long
it's even starting to affect my choice in relationships.
The types of women I usually go for are ones with insecurities because
if we breakup I know they'll walk away feeling a lot better about themselves than I do because I have the marks to prove that I'm even more damaged than she is.
These wounds, I try to bandage them with high-end fashion clothing, but wrapping this shit don't stop the pain.
European garments don't make me bleed white blood.
But I'm far from just another wannabe nigga. Another wannabe soldier.
I'm a general — a veteran ... the one with the most battle scars from being at war with myself for so long.
This piece is the second of a four-part series. To view the first piece (published in Issue VIII), click here.