We are vain creatures
Looking for reflections of ourselves in others.
Do we love to spite the flaws we know so well?
Seeing them haggard and grey
On display in the purple circles under eyes peeled open all night
To the sound of rampant traipsing thoughts.
Exposed by soft light of morning light reflected in bathroom mirrors.
Who knows our secrets?
Those little pining and conniving seeds
Taking root in the cerebral hemispheres.
Able to save that which we cannot save ourselves from
By nagging and pulling
So that we might have one thing which we can call our own.
One source of pride in which we may set up as a beacon for all excuses.
Just to say we did one thing in our lives
That had nothing to do with what we should have been doing.
Yet alone we twist in the sheets
Stricken by existential crisis.