I have told everyone about those strange miss-matched shapes,
That litters my skin,
And tell a tale but I make sure their words are twisted.

No one needs to know the pathetic truth,
The little tale, that repeats back to me, "Your unwell."
That's fine by me; as long as it doesn't come from someone else.

I am still incomplete; still not well enough to look myself in the mirror.
Lacking the focus, to understand that I should be disappointed.

I have tattered the skin upon my body with purple and blue.

This dotted bruising I should feel ashamed of,
But I can never convince myself to stop or be disappointment.

The gently miss-match, unhealthy color to the tone of my skin,
Tells the tale's of my self-hatred and rage,
And all the unwell thoughts that dance around my mind.