Matthew P. Haubert

Staring back at me
is the face of delusion—
scabbed and torn
from the poor judgments
of my younger years.

I try to wash it away,
down the drain,
away from my eyes,
so I don’t have to see.

But I scrub and scrub,
and still everything I hate
stares back at me.

I can’t get rid of
this putrid self I made—
the one living in the mirror,
the one I now despise.

So I avoid all mirrors.
Cameras too.
I never look—
so I never have to see
what I’ve become.

Everything I hate.
All I’ve become.
All I can’t take.

My torn, ruined body
thrown back into my eyes
every day.

Instead of trying to get myself back,
I accept the horror,
the delusion,
the sentence.

An ugly portrait—
a mangled face.
Everything I hate.

It can’t be changed.
I can’t change.