the irony being that
I hate myself only because
of my perception of others'
ideas about me;
if you had to think about
that much, you won't get
my drift and won't
likely like me for it--
I love to like me when I can
but seldom does it
stick around long enough
to matter, to be convincing
or add up to loving--
it ends with a glib moment
on stage, a poem on a page
or a fisted bottle
breaking another mirror.
It is too big a struggle.
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