i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.
it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.
there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.
the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.
i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.
and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.
a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.
she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—
she’s just a scandal.
May 29, 2025
May 29, 2025 at 11:00 AM UTC
i see a mass standing in front of the mirror—
a human, perhaps.
i can't call her a girl.
she doesn't have the attributes—
enough to be called all that.
it's a reflection,
undeterred,
simply wretched.
there are marks on the mirror—
proof it hasn't been cleaned.
i wonder if they're on my body too.
i hope the glass has enough cracks
to hide and tell
how it feels every time
i discover the same wrecked look
staring back.
the skin is loose
around a few different hooks,
feels like it's sagging—
i pull so hard,
hoping i'll tear through.
i feel nothing but pain
for her,
hidden beneath all that disgust—
the turmoil i'll put her in,
the self-hatred.
and to think—
she’s just become
a black mass
of everything and nothing.
a loathsome, foolish little being
that can’t fit,
can’t talk,
can’t sit.
she’s not the ideal.
and sometimes i think
her existence
isn’t for the world even—
she’s just a scandal.
i intend to stop this- but it's just so hard.
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