i stare at a mirror for the fiftieth time tonight yet i still dont recognize the face peering back at me.
my hands are detached from my arms which are detached from my torso which i cant tell is mine anymore
my head is all i know.
but whose desperate eyes are those?
a shaking hand makes its way up, up, up to my hair,
tugs at it experimentally.
a sharp flash of pain.
i can trust my head.
fingertips trace along soft flesh and they make contact with a bruised knee.
when did it get this purple? since when did i bruise so easily?
my body feels more and more foreign by the day.
why must i stay within the confines of these fat legs, these heavy arms, this bulging stomach?
why can i not tell the thickness of my own arm? the shape of my own hips?
why must i be this way?