September 18th, Year of the Vampires

My father shows me affection on occasion, when I allow it. A thing that is rare, but not precious. He praises a beauty I will never own. Of course, I question whether it is sincerity, or perversion that inspires any compliment coming from him. Another possibility being pity.

My struggles with body dysmorphic disorder are mostly private, but there are times in which the frustrations they cause become noticeable. I have said all I can about my self-loathing. There is nothing new to add, only that it continues to grow. I reject accepting my appearance, never wanting to embrace something so flawed. Even in a dark room, the ugliness still exists.

Father says, “ You are so beautiful; how could you ever hate yourself?”
There is not enough trust to take his words into consideration. What little there is, only makes me resent those words more. They are lies, I am not stupid enough to accept. I cry out the anger until it sleeps, but never fully rests.

I feel the dissatisfaction inside every cell. I call for its silence. It cannot be better, so long as the sore spots continue to drown out my own voice. If only I could see what exists beyond the chaos. If only I could hear what is being said underneath the layers of noise.

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September 18th, Year of the Vampires

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