I can’t remember how to love you right now.

You know one of them ones where: you look in the mirror, and the outfit doesn’t sit right? It’s not sitting right right. Not lopsided or ill-fitting or un-ironed. More: awkward? Uncomfortable? Unrelaxed? Cringy? Like the clothes don’t belong to you. Or: you borrowed them

Almost like you have an itch. It’s hot. Prickling against your skin, but the room temperature is normal. The weather is serene. A pounding headache comes out of nowhere until you realise: you have been frowning a lot. Frowning because you are utterly perplexed at why you even exist. Perplexed at how you can look this hideous. Disgusting. Offensive. How could I subject people to really engage with me when I look this? Hell, I don’t even want to engage with me now. I clearly ate something bad because my stomach has been acting up. No no, wait. Hang on a minute. You feel nauseous because of the amount of pressure you are putting on yourself. Right. That’s the ticket. Nail on the head! Well done you for figuring out the obvious. You are making yourself sick; you will never look like the typical attractive black guy. Why the hell was created this way then? Isn’t this just a waste of stardust? These elements could have better used to form something actually worth interacting with.

This is pathetic.

What is up with them trousers, bro! Christ, you’re directing your mother. Jeans are too baggy, the crotch is almost touching the goddam floor. But they weren’t yesterday. That tee looked banging last week when you paired it with the red 3’s and matching baseball cap. But this tee doesn’t look good right now. From the side: it’s a little dumpy. Lumpy. Frumpy. Vomit inducing. Face is a little porky; round and chubby. I shaved my beard, head, cleaned up with a razor. Usually the outcome is precise lines like a technical drawing. But the lines aren’t sharp today, the person operating the razor was vacant. Fuck me, look at that skin! I have this dirty, repulsive, grotesque hyperpigmentation on my forehead. I am impatient with my skin routine. Maybe I am supposed to steadily grow more disfigured as I age. I look old. I look like the back of bus; and that’s insult to the bus. I feel…meh. I don’t like you, Aaron. I dislike everything about you, Aaron. I would rewrite, re-design, reinvent you.

I feel hideous.

I feel like eating my feelings.

Rinse and repeat.