President of the Sore Thumb Convention

When my waist shrank, and my teeth
Shed their silver armor, and my face got rid
Of its red-dot pattern, I discovered a pleasure —
Collecting sore thumbs, far more wretched than I ever was.
Broken joints, broken nails, or no nails at all...
I cleaned them, bandaged them, kissed them
And then wept when they got better and left me.
Dear God, what would I do alone
In a world full of mirrors,
Having but my own reflection to compete with?