Body

heart full of paper and ink

easily burned,

but hard to erase.

everything hurts,

ache lurking deep

in your bones.

the face in the mirror

cannot be my own.

it doesn’t match.

in fact, nothing does,

my whole conscience is

pieces thrown together.

the world has all the colors

that it used to

but i don’t see them the same.

where did the

vibrancy

of life go?

i am small but i

take up too much space

i don’t deserve the place I occupy.

to look in the mirror

is not to look at me.

it’s the wrong shape.

the wrong size.

the wrong body.

everything about me is wrong.

the list of disorders

physical and mental

must be miles long by now.

and it’s only getting longer

with time and age.

i’d rather not know.

i don’t seem to scar

sometimes i crave the

battle wounds that others have.

but that would be proof

that i am real.

and i’m not sure i want to be.

i try not to think

too hard about my body

when i do it comes out like this.

poetry full of self loathing.

full of broken eyes.

i’d just rather not know.

i’d rather not know who i am

than face this

mirage in the mirror.