it comes to me at night

I think I’m alright,

but my dreams whisper my inner doubts.

they show me I’m not good enough,

they tell me I’m not pretty.

a targeted gaze and smirk sends bullets into my heart,

a lover’s lack of eye contact freezes me into a hollow husk.

why does my brain create this?

why must it punish me in a way so ominous?

why can’t I simply enjoy my unconsciousness?

my insecurities awaken when I lose control,

hypothetical moments replay and rewind

and the worst is trapped in my head.

maybe I should listen and strive for perfection so I no longer feel inferior.

I’m trying but I know if I continue listening,

I will never be satisfied.

I’m never good enough.

I’m never pretty enough.

my dreams remind me.