i forgot what i looked like.
or maybe i never knew.
maybe i've only ever been
a pile of edits
a draft that never made it to final form.
too many versions—
none of them true.

but all of them hated.
every.
single.
one.

i watched myself
like a villain watches the hero
waiting for the failure.
my eyes burned holes
in every reflection
with rage
or fear
or something worse—
that quiet, creeping disgust
that never announces itself
but settles in your bones
like mold.

my body shifted.
again.
again.
again.

the scale moved.
the mirror warped.
the lines on my face turned corners
i don’t remember drawing.

i became
a blur.
a glitch.
a shape i didn’t sign off on.

and standing there,
what’s left—
just a sad mountain
of a hopeless woman
whose only consistent feature
is her pain.

those eyes,
always those eyes.

a flicker of hope once—
turned
to shame
turned
to silence
turned
to a stare
that says
"you’re still not enough."

but those eyes?
i’d know them anywhere.
i’d recognize that hurt
in any body
on any planet
in any lifetime
and still
call it
me.