Chemi
*.✧ Que Sera, Sera ✧.* | 25y/o fem
- Nov 25, 2025
- 262
I look in the mirror, and I don't recognize the person staring back.
Not because the face has changed so much, but because my eyes refuse to see anything kind.
There's this cruel trick my mind plays: it zooms in on every line, every shadow, every part that feels wrong, foreign, impossible. It turns a tired face into a monster, a soft body into something unworthy of space. And the worst part? I know it's lying. I know the distortion isn't real, and the truth is more pleasant. But knowing doesn't stop the ache.
It's like living with a voice that hates me more than anyone else ever could.
It whispers that I'm ugly in ways that can't be fixed, broken in ways that can't be hidden.
It steals precious moments of my life: Getting dressed becomes a battle, photos become evidence, existing in my own skin becomes punishment, hanging out with others becomes humiliation.
Some days, it screams so loud I can't hear anything else.
Some days, the hatred is quiet, just a low hum under everything.
But sometimes… in the smallest, quietest moments…
I catch a glimpse of something else.
A softer angle in the light, a memory of a day I felt almost at home in my skin, a stranger's kind word that landed gently.
They're faint, those moments, like stars behind city glow, but they're there.
I'm not ready to make peace yet.
Maybe I won't be for a long time.
But today I'm letting myself wonder what it might feel like to look in the mirror one day and not flinch.
To treat this body like an old friend who's been through hell with me, instead of an enemy.
Or so I at least hope.
Not because the face has changed so much, but because my eyes refuse to see anything kind.
There's this cruel trick my mind plays: it zooms in on every line, every shadow, every part that feels wrong, foreign, impossible. It turns a tired face into a monster, a soft body into something unworthy of space. And the worst part? I know it's lying. I know the distortion isn't real, and the truth is more pleasant. But knowing doesn't stop the ache.
It's like living with a voice that hates me more than anyone else ever could.
It whispers that I'm ugly in ways that can't be fixed, broken in ways that can't be hidden.
It steals precious moments of my life: Getting dressed becomes a battle, photos become evidence, existing in my own skin becomes punishment, hanging out with others becomes humiliation.
Some days, it screams so loud I can't hear anything else.
Some days, the hatred is quiet, just a low hum under everything.
But sometimes… in the smallest, quietest moments…
I catch a glimpse of something else.
A softer angle in the light, a memory of a day I felt almost at home in my skin, a stranger's kind word that landed gently.
They're faint, those moments, like stars behind city glow, but they're there.
I'm not ready to make peace yet.
Maybe I won't be for a long time.
But today I'm letting myself wonder what it might feel like to look in the mirror one day and not flinch.
To treat this body like an old friend who's been through hell with me, instead of an enemy.
Or so I at least hope.
