Some days, I avoid the mirror,
as if its glass might speak.
As if it might tell me all the things
I already whisper to myself.

I tug at fabric, shift my stance,
try to fit into spaces
that never seem meant for me.
Like I’m always too much, or not enough.

I trace the outlines of who I wish I was,
sketching softness into strength,
erasing the parts I’ve learned to hide,
as if beauty is something I have to earn.

But I am not a mistake,
not a problem to be solved.
I am a story still being written,
a masterpiece still in progress.

skin stretched over bone
nearly translucent
almost disappearing
fainting
dizzy

falling


falling



falling




fal­ling

can i stitch myself into you
so my hurt becomes yours
and yours becomes mine?
can we heal each others scars
and halve the pain?
can we travel the world
and grow lemons
in the backyard of an old house?
can i share a life with you
or will the weight of our problems
sink the stone to the bottom of the river?
because i promise you
when the scars keep opening
and you can't hide them anymore
i can't promise to fix you,
but i know you won't bleed out alone

"the reason i hug you so much is because that if i let go i'm afraid you will too"

beauty in the unknown,
quiet sadness,
whispered silence,
drawn to light,
but doomed to darkness
"i want to get better"
i never do

i see your eyes in the mirror
the same icy blue
i hear your voice when i speak
and yell
but now i feel the words hit me
and bounce off
                           "the apple never falls far"
                           "you're just like me"
no
i will never be
we may share a face,
and may have the same last name,
but we will never be the same

i will never be you
i refuse

i'm okay
(i promise)
i'm not going to kms
(i promise)
i'm getting better
(i promise)
i'm eating
(i promise)

(with fingers crossed)