(no subject)
It's not that you have a lowly opinion of yourself insofar as body image. Because that would be stupid.
You have your own fan club. Girls who fawn after you, weep and laugh and stalk in all the most godawful ways that you can think of, that call you Prince and leave presents in your locker when you're not looking. Normal people don't get fan clubs. Unattractive people don't get fan clubs.
Consciously, then, you know you are... well, pretty. Porcelain features; minimal and small without being pinched, without being too small. Wide eyes, a bright violet color, a defined chin. You don't mind your features. You don't mind being handsome. Beautiful, as some of the girls call you. You do mind how they treat the looks, as though it's something other-worldly. As if you're deserving of praise and bowing and pedestals.
You're not. You're really not.
And maybe that right there's the problem that you have.
When you look in the mirror, you don't see disappointment. You don't see an ugly boy, or an overweight boy. You don't even see an average boy, whose looks are overrated. You see the flawlessness that the others see. You see those eyes, that throat, that perfectly brushed hair. You see every minute little detail, every hair that's out of place, every pore that's clogged, every bump and imperfection that shouldn't be there.
So it's not so much the disappointment as it is a sort of relentless scrutiny. Is your hair perfect? Are your eyes bright, shining, friendly? Your skin smooth and unblemished, your clothes neat, your lips unchapped, your fingernails clean, your cuticles neat, your body thin and lean and able to fit into the tiny, fitted clothing you've grown accustomed to impressing with.
It's this overpowering kind of feeling, when you look into the mirror, when you lean in close enough that you can see into your pores, see the cracks in your lips and the tiny, tiny lines that make up skin cells. And you know they're supposed to be there, again, consciously.
Subconsciously, you're a mess.
Did you wash your face? Your hair? Condition your hair? Brush your hair? Clean your nails, brush your teeth, apply lotion, pluck what needs to be, get every tiny divot and crack in your reality that the others would notice, that you were so sure they would notice. You have lists, miles long, checklists to keep you from listing off into imperfection. You had audiences to impress, fan clubs to live up to the hype of. And it's times where this kind of stark reality catches up to you where you find yourself no longer hungry, listlessly pushing lettuce around your plate because you were pretty sure you read somewhere that even lettuce had calories.
You didn't. Not really. But it might have.
It's careful work, you think to yourself, as you start your nightly inspection. As you smooth your hair and brush your fingers across your nose, sit back and look into the mirror and smile, hoping to find something to be proud of. Instead, the smile looks foreign, you can see a blackhead on your nose, and there's bags starting to form under your eyes, from all the sleep you've been worrying away, from all the stressing you can put yourself under from simply inspecting your fingernails.
You lean in close, fog up the glass with your breath as you scrubs your fingers at your face, poke and prod and flatten skin until you think you've achieved something near approachable.
Approachable, you remind yourself with a sigh, is not perfection. Not even close.
You don't stop obsessing over your reflection for the next hour and a half.