Beauty who's her?

I wake up and dread the day. Avoid mirrors— Hell, I covered them. Blankets, towels—anything to block the glare of a reflection I can’t stand. Because when I see her—me— Without makeup, just skin and fat and flaws— it feels like a threat. Like I’m looking at someone who ruined my life. Barefaced— I’m disgusting. Dark circles. Thin lips. Tired eyes. No filter. No mask. No mercy. I don’t glow without it. I disappear. My hair? Frizzy. Greasy. Ugly. It never sits right. And my body? Let’s not pretend. I’m fat. Not “thick.” Not “confident.” Just fat. The kind that feels like failure. That makes people look away— or worse, through me. Clothes betray me. Nothing fits. Stomach rolls. Thighs chafe. People stare like I should apologize for existing. I scroll past beauty like it’s alien. They smile in skin I’d sell my soul for. And I wonder— what it’s like to not want to vanish. But I wouldn’t know. My mirrors are covered. This isn’t a healing story. No hope. No pride. Just hate I can’t stop. That’s it. That’s the poem.