Along with insecurity comes vanity, seeping in slowly as time goes by. Another case of the treatment overcoming the illness, as self-assurances become mantras that whisper to your ears so much, so constant that one cannot determine whether the voices are clouding something else or rather reigning in the kingdom of their head.
I know I look good. I know you want me.
And if you stare, well, you know you should.
Confident and empowering or conceitedly vain?
Or perhaps just knowing and realistic?