Xerocopy

If I were to produce a photocopy of myself,
The exact replica of what all else see.

Could I see the blatant reasons
Of why others perceive me so,
Of my troubled heart beating so yearningly
Behind this façade of distant feelings?

Would I not see the obvious testimony
Of why I spend my life
Behind the paned-window blurred with imperfections
Which keep me from all the rest?

Will I see the malfunctions that plague my form
Like parasitic acid that erodes all beauty
And leaves only a monstrosity in its wake?

Am I so mistaken that I shall spot all of my flaws,
Ones that only succeed
In strengthening this burden barricade
In which I cannot break?

Or is it the hideousness
To which I am
That will gaze vacantly back at me?

Or will it be the ugly truth?