There is nothing beautiful here.
There is nothing profound.
This is a confession.

I've littered my skin with blood ridden callouses
and blisters torn apart.

I've poisoned my body with chemicals and substances
all for the greater good.

I've left black inked testaments across my canvas
in the name of art.

I've stretched my skin with needles and plastic
so that I would stick out.

I've broken, repaired, shattered, healed, destroyed, salvaged
myself to appease the mirror.

But there is nothing beautiful here.
There is nothing profound.
This is a confession.

There is nothing beautiful here.