Tale of Narcissus
Tell me, Narcissus, is there a limit to your deceit? You lie, and you crawl, carrying with yourself the humility of a saint and the devotion of a shrine. You focus on your flaws, zooming in on the bump of your nose and the plaque on your teeth, yet you stare at the portraits— yours for hours to no end. They find their way in old letters, journal entries, wallpapers. O Narcissus, tell the truth. Do you hate yourself truly, or is it another farce to be accepted as human? You'd rather cover yourself in bandages than go out with a bare face. Nakedness always discomforted you. Or perhaps not. You stand for hours, staring at your body in the mirror— the heaviness of your breasts, the curve of your waist—and you look for ways that a man might hold them. You carry your body as a burden, awkward and heavy, but you find ways in which they might appeal to others, and you polish them and you conceal the flaws, and you sometimes look pretty. But O Narcissus, do you really think that, or is it ...
