I’ve exhausted every person, I’ve drained any other option, so I sit here with my beige cup of glistening mahogany tea and the ancient carpet that suctions my body to the floor. My mirror tells me that I am tired. It beckons to me; come closer, it whispers, but I know better. I know coming face to face with myself only reveals all of the hideous marks and errors and flaws that seem so blessedly nonexistent from afar. What’s the point of makeup if I already know what’s lurking underneath? And what’s the point of allowing somebody to step closer to me if I know that they’ll walk away when they see what was gloriously invisible just a few steps back?
The bitterness of my tea washes away the melancholy lingering on my tongue, and I try to avoid my reflection’s wicked glare by typing something random, but not even Microsoft Word will let me get away with any mistakes, those red and green sharp-edged lines pointing out every weakness.