I stop seeing the visual me.
My mind seems to become tired of my face,
Seeing only shapes and lines.
Then, gradually,
Even the abstract lines have no meaning for me.
As my eyes begin to blur,
My thoughts take over,
And what I see is a mix between memories and thoughts.
The real me.
It's then I know how much of me,
Is made up of those people I love,
And have loved.
I see parts of them in me.
It's for that single moment,
That I can't dislike anything about myself,
Because I love the people who made me.
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