She peels herself apart,
pinches and scrapes,
chasing the illusion of smoothness—
a flawless mask she will never wear.

Sleep evades her,
lost in the endless cycle,
fingertips carving valleys into flesh,
as if pain could sculpt perfection.

She knows what she’s doing.
She’s making it better.
Or is she?

It has never made it better.
She is a slave to the mirror,
to the fleeting relief of healing—
before the itch returns,
before she unravels again.

A horse visor strapped to her face,
her world narrowed to every blemish,
every imperfection screaming for erasure.

Turn back time,
restart,
anything—
Each touch rewinds the clock.

Everyone else has porcelain skin.
They don’t pick.
They have control.

She needs to tear it off,
strip away the torment,
weep until she is clean,
until the mirror stops whispering
and her hands forget the hunger.

She watches herself crumble,
scrambling to rebuild
with the same shattered pieces.