The days are airless,
and I am ashamed to admit
with theatrics
that I often hate my face
in every reflection I pass.

But if you tell me
I’m pretty,
I might believe it.

My confidence is
an act,
built like the walls
of a castle made
from the burnt top
of crème brûlée
glossy and cracked,
with a soft center
that trembles.

I’ve honed my image
since the age of bullies
and my grandmother,
who said,
“Never let them see
you affected.”

My smile is a feature
meant to disarm,
to pull you into thinking
I am at ease.

In the courthouse’s restroom,
I cried into a trashcan
and took off my bra
through the straps
of my dress,
discarding it
with my tears.

I mustn’t let you
be my oxygen.

^{_{(Daily Writing 098)}}