I don’t owe my beauty to men.
The perky *******, the toned thighs—
they weren’t sculpted for your gaze.
Manicured nails, clean hair—
none of this is yours.

I don’t owe my beauty to me, either.
Look at me.
Ruin,
in the shape of a woman
you once claimed to love.

It doesn’t feel like my skin anymore.
It reeks—
of broken dreams
and promises whispered too close.

Look at me
ruin what you claimed was beautiful.
I hide behind my brother’s shirts.
I disappear into crowds,
like a shadow pretending to be whole.

My body stings
where your hands have been.
Every inch now
wrapped in a blanket of thorns.

Now—
do you love me the same?
Can you find the rose
that is dying
to bloom?