I'm insecure tonight.
Self-esteem like cracks in the flaws.
Memories of a pathetic little bitch
rising up through the basin to spit
the neglect of self, back into my face.
It could have been me.
I could have been her
reeking of desperation and "love me, love me"
like a spider tangled in unwashed dreadlocks of hair
dying to feel connected as it dies alone
in the fear that it'll never be loved.
I can't help but hate her by default.
She's the weakness of humanity personified
with a face that crumples smiles
in a sunlight encrusted crowd
as she stalks the joy from the air.
I spit on my own reflection. I spit on hers
and let it dribble down the mirror.
Spasms of anger exploding
in barely tethered restraint
for the pathetic little bitch in her
awaking the memories
of the desperate little bitch in me.
© Indie Adams 2012