The monster never hid from me
it walked where I could see.
It wasn’t claws beneath the bed;
it was the voice inside my head.
It didn’t scratch or bite or crawl,
just whispered soft and low,
telling me things that felt like truth
until I let the poison grow.
It dressed itself in doubt and hunger,
in grace that felt like shame.
It taught me how to shrink myself
and still believe I’d gain.
It told me I was almost good,
that “less” would make me shine.
It wasn’t cruel, just calculated;
it made its logic mine.
I watched my friends with sharpened eyes,
their beauty stinging pride.
I clapped and laughed and cheered for them,
while something burned inside.
Their wins felt like a slap to me,
their joy a quiet theft.
I loved them, yes, but couldn’t stopresenting what was left.
I mimicked her, her laugh, her stance,
the way she held the room.
I carved myself to fit a mold
that only made me bruise.
The mirror scolded every day;
the scale demanded truth.
And every time I didn’t eat,
the monster whispered “proof.”
I hated what I couldn’t be
and hated who I was.
I made excuses for the pain and never asked the cause.
Now silence rings too loud at night,
the dark too sharp to sleep.
I lie awake with thoughts that itch,
with secrets I can’t keep.
Sometimes I’m scared I don’t want help,
I want to outshine the rest.
I chase the crown of “good enough”and always come up less.
I started watching friends like glass
I could shatter with my stare.
Their praise felt stolen from my mouth;their beauty split me bare.
Girls online I’d never meet
still made me feel unclean
their perfect lives, their filtered skin
,their practiced, quiet sheen.
I studied them like holy texts
then tore myself apart.
No amount of carving down
could satisfy the dark.
The monster never lived beneath
my bed or in my hall
it curled beneath my skin instead,
feeding on my flaws.
It fed on shame I felt for thoughts
I swore I didn’t mean.
It fed on hunger I called strength,
on envy left unseen.
It wore my voice.
It learned my name.
It turned the mirror into a scale,
the scale into a god
and whispered, “Be her instead.”
So I tried.
Until I couldn’t tell
where I ended
and imitation began.
Now everyone’s a threat to me
each stranger, friend, and face.
I hate them for the things they are,
and me for my disgrace.
So don’t ask why I barely speak
or why my smile looks thin
the monster’s not under my bed.
It’s buried in my skin.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 1:12 AM UTC
The monster never hid from me
it walked where I could see.
It wasn’t claws beneath the bed;
it was the voice inside my head.
It didn’t scratch or bite or crawl,
just whispered soft and low,
telling me things that felt like truth
until I let the poison grow.
It dressed itself in doubt and hunger,
in grace that felt like shame.
It taught me how to shrink myself
and still believe I’d gain.
It told me I was almost good,
that “less” would make me shine.
It wasn’t cruel, just calculated;
it made its logic mine.
I watched my friends with sharpened eyes,
their beauty stinging pride.
I clapped and laughed and cheered for them,
while something burned inside.
Their wins felt like a slap to me,
their joy a quiet theft.
I loved them, yes, but couldn’t stopresenting what was left.
I mimicked her, her laugh, her stance,
the way she held the room.
I carved myself to fit a mold
that only made me bruise.
The mirror scolded every day;
the scale demanded truth.
And every time I didn’t eat,
the monster whispered “proof.”
I hated what I couldn’t be
and hated who I was.
I made excuses for the pain and never asked the cause.
Now silence rings too loud at night,
the dark too sharp to sleep.
I lie awake with thoughts that itch,
with secrets I can’t keep.
Sometimes I’m scared I don’t want help,
I want to outshine the rest.
I chase the crown of “good enough”and always come up less.
I started watching friends like glass
I could shatter with my stare.
Their praise felt stolen from my mouth;their beauty split me bare.
Girls online I’d never meet
still made me feel unclean
their perfect lives, their filtered skin
,their practiced, quiet sheen.
I studied them like holy texts
then tore myself apart.
No amount of carving down
could satisfy the dark.
The monster never lived beneath
my bed or in my hall
it curled beneath my skin instead,
feeding on my flaws.
It fed on shame I felt for thoughts
I swore I didn’t mean.
It fed on hunger I called strength,
on envy left unseen.
It wore my voice.
It learned my name.
It turned the mirror into a scale,
the scale into a god
and whispered, “Be her instead.”
So I tried.
Until I couldn’t tell
where I ended
and imitation began.
Now everyone’s a threat to me
each stranger, friend, and face.
I hate them for the things they are,
and me for my disgrace.
So don’t ask why I barely speak
or why my smile looks thin
the monster’s not under my bed.
It’s buried in my skin.
