I hate the bags beneath my eyes, the ones that expose every sleepless night I pretend never happened.

I hate the scars on my skin.

I hate the way they remain long after the pain has passed, like my body keeps receipts for every moment I wish I could erase.

I hate looking weak.

I hate the trembling voice, the tired eyes, the softness that gives me away when I would rather look untouchable.

I hate crying.

I hate the way tears betray me, spilling out of a person who has spent so much time convincing everyone that she is fine.

I hate being fragile.

I hate needing people.

I hate being affected.

I hate how deeply everything seems to reach me.

And somehow, the cruelest part is this:

I have become a reflection of everything I hate most.

The exhaustion lives beneath my eyes.

The memories live beneath my skin.

The weakness lives in my hands.

The sadness lives behind my silence.

The tears live just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest crack.

I spent so long trying to destroy every vulnerable part of myself that I forgot those parts were still me.

So now I look in the mirror and see everything I tried to hide.

Not beautiful.

Not broken.

Not strong.

Just human.

And maybe that’s what I hate most.

That no matter how hard I try to become cold, life keeps leaving evidence that I once cared.

That no matter how carefully I hide my pain, my body remembers.

That no matter how many times I swear I will never cry again, there is still a part of me soft enough to hurt.

I am a collection of things I wish I could erase.

And every morning, when I look into the mirror, I am forced to meet the girl I have spent years trying not to become.