I, the me, the oxymoron

I,
the me,
the oxymoron.

Looking into the mirror I see the perfect reflection of imperfection
The way each wrinkle and crease displays undeniable youth
The femininity present in the faint hairs on my chin
And most obviously the flat expression upon my smiling face

Yet deeper, behind the eyes and into the skull, the world unravels
The bright lights and loud noises of my mundane internal space
They shine dully under the scrutinizing eye of my uncaring self
While my narcissistic self-loathing bitters itself in my blood sugar

Then deeper again, into the abstract simplicity of unconsciousness
The pleasuring nightmares brought out from memories I can't recall
The alarm set off by my amygdala when I'm safer than ever
And the muddied truth of a hyperactively tired imagination

Finally the deepest we can go, we see the I, the me, the self
The moronic way I look at someone I've never cared to meet, yet know the most