I am just a worse version

of those who stare back.

A dimension I can't reach—

I am flat; incomplete.

I look pleasant some days,

horrid on others.

My glass becomes blurry;

I am just colors.

Me is nonexistent.

There is no such thing.

If I am reliant on you,

is there truly an I within?

Comparing is my forte—

it is the air I breathe.

She is so much better.

I just want to leave.

Escape, not this room,

for it is not what I most desire.

I want something much greater—

something far more dire.

Freedom from comparing.

I want to be my own person.

If that requires death,

then so be it.