every virtue has its corresponding vice

My narcissism is smaller than yours, or so I tell myself to feel better about applying a second look over the shoulder. Getting older, can’t hide this within a tacky snap of the photobooth browser, no wizard of instagram casting spells over the stories of my skin. Painting my nails incessantly in an ever rainbow of my youth, tricks to flash that little girl not totally buried unbreathing. Mulling over layered punctuation when confessing powerless prowess to the mirror.

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