This isn't myself.

I look into the mirror,
Staring into my reflection.
This can't be me.
This isn't myself.

I stare and stare and stare,
Hoping that the mirror is false.
Waiting for it to crack
Or anything to prove this isn't me.

My hair's too long.
It goes down my back,
Curling at the ends
And waving left and right.

I want it to be shorter.
I want it to not even reach my chin.
But what would others think of this drastic change?
I keep it the same in fear of their thoughts.

My face is too slim.
Feminine, girly.
It isn't defined -
Just simply mature.

I want it to be chisled,
Less narrow in shape.
But that really can't happen,
Not physically and not without social suicide.

"This isn't me!" I scream,
Gripping the sides of my head.

"This isn't myself!" I shout,
Wrapping my arms around myself.

Looking into the mirror again,
Examining more than my face.
My arms are covering up what I'm examining,
So I put them at my sides.

I glare and glare and glare,
Unhappy with how I look.
How can this be me
When it doesn't resemble me at all?

My chest, for a start,
Isn't as desired.
It sticks out from the rest of my body
And tells people what I should be.

I don't want it to be so!
I want two pectorals underneath my shirt,
Muscular or not doesn't concern me.
Just flatter than the floor!

My eyes make their way to my hips.
What is even going on there?
There is a dip in my waist
And my hips stick out.

This isn't how it should be.
My body should be narrow,
My hips and waist in line.
It shouldn't be trying to be an hour glass.

"Who is this I see?" I screech,
Collapsing to the floor in defeat.

"Is this really me?" I wail,
Curling up into a ball.

A few moments later, I hear a voice.
One I know so well.
"Honey, are you dressed? We need to go."
My mother's voice, bothered because she doesn't want to be late.

I reluctantly get up,
Changing into a frilly pink dress.
I rub my upper arm.
This isn't me.

I go downstairs,
Greeted with the sight of my mother.
"Honey, are you okay?" She asks.
"You're face is teary-eyed."

My head nods by itself,
Even though I wish it to be shook.
"Yes, I'm fine." I reply.
"This is me and I'm perfectly fine."