My skin and bones have seen better days,
but I am not asking for your sympathy.
I block out the noise, still aware of the whispers.
Eyebrows creased like my stretch marks,
I want to forget what it's like to have a body.
Instead, see me for my spine
because although it is bent,
it is not broken.
It's just another thing to mend.
Cracked, twisted, and stepped on.
Justifying my hate with forgiveness,
my mirror is used to the repitition.
Finding solace in substances,
I was beautiful before the world told me different.
If only I would've seen that
before the harm was dealt.
Oh, to be faceless
in a room of familiar faces.