Himself

I struggle far too much with the need for constant validation: it practically controls me. And I let it! That's the worse part.

He had very pretty eyes.

Still does, maybe.

Wouldn't know now.

He needs glasses now.

He used to sit,

In front of the mirror,

The bathroom one,

And look at himself.

He didn't see himself,

But he could see his eyes as his own.

Because that's what everyone told him he was.

The yearbook told him he was,

The boy with pretty eyes.

It got worse,

Once he got glasses.

Because then he was,

Nothing.

The boy with pretty eyes was just a boy,

And he wasn't even that!

He was a man, through a technicality.

He doesn't feel very much like a man.

The boy with pretty eyes is only himself.

He's no longer the person the yearbook told him he was.

He doesn't think he's...

Himself.

Anymore.