Rag doll self-esteem

At 3 AM, I am a rag doll,
Standing in front of a mirror,
Picking at my skin by the seams.
My nimble fingers fumble
Unwrapping my stitches,
Unwinding my hems,
teasing the fragile fabric of my self-esteem.

My glaring gaze skims my body,
scans my flaws,
Every glance, glazed with loathing
Is a gruesomely dull blade
Tugging at my seams
Fraying the fragile fabric of my self-esteem.

Slowly, I become entranced
with poignant, pointed opinions
alluring poisonous thoughts
poking a dormant hive
and as the moonlight caresses
the edges of my mirror
the hive awakens
a shortness of breath
a sense of urgency.

Frantically,
my palms cup this excess fabric
reshaping, redraping, rebuilding,
reimagining what this rag doll could be
pinching, plucking, picking
padding, pinning, painfully piercing
pushing and pulling
tearing and teasing
Prying open the last seam of my self-esteem.

Then, for a split second,
Time stops
and with it, my beating heart
As I glance at the reflection
of this newly tailored silhouette:
Perfectly foreign
Perfect, yet barren.

The fabric unfurls
ebbing and flowing
regaining its original shape
and the moonlit silhouette,
a mirage of light and desire
fades away.

I patch the frayed fabric of my self-esteem
restitching, resewing, regaining control
of my lost identity
I mend my holes and atone
for my flaws and shortcomings
And at 3:01 Am, I am once again a rag doll.