It was never about
the number glowing cold on the scale.
It was always the mirror-
the way my reflection whispers lies
only I can hear.
It’s in the clothes I choose,
the way fabric touches skin
like a question I can’t answer.
It’s in the quiet math of the day:
how much I ate,
how much I didn’t,
how much guilt weighs
more than any number ever could.
I can look exactly the same-
the same bones,
the same body-
but if I eat
the mirror grows cruel.
It stretches me into something larger,
something unbearable.
And if I don’t eat,
suddenly I feel smaller,
lighter-
as if hunger could carve me
into someone worth seeing.
I know it lives in my head.
I know it’s in my mind.
But knowing doesn’t quiet the voice.
So I stay silent.
I don’t eat-
unless I have to,
unless my mom is watching.
And afterward comes the flood:
guilt,
shame,
a slow collapsing inside my chest
like a building nobody noticed falling.
I feel like I’m dying
somewhere deep inside-
a quiet kind of dying
that leaves no marks
anyone else can see.
Sometimes I wish I could scream,
loud enough
for someone to finally understand.
But my heart doesn’t work that way.
Instead I hide.
I smooth my face into something normal.
I pretend I’m okay.
I pretend I’m fine.
But lately
the mask keeps slipping.
The motivation to pretend
has disappeared somewhere
between sleepless nights
and silent lunches.
Now the sadness inside my head
spreads like fog,
thick and endless.
I don’t smile anymore.
I don’t laugh.
I just sit inside the quiet
and let the hours pass through me.
People notice something is wrong.
I can see it in their eyes.
They ask,
“What’s going on?”
And suddenly
my voice disappears.
I can’t explain it.
I can’t even say
that nothing’s wrong.
The words simply refuse
to exist.
So instead
I unravel slowly
in front of everyone at school-
threads of me falling loose
one by one.
I’m ashamed.
Embarrassed.
But I’m too tired
to keep pretending
that everything is normal.
Because it isn’t.
I am drowning
in water no one else can see,
reaching for air
that never quite reaches my lungs.
And some days
the thought creeps in-
quiet and dangerous-
that maybe
if I just stopped fighting,
the water would finally
be still.
Mar 15
Mar 15, 2026 at 12:26 PM UTC
It was never about
the number glowing cold on the scale.
It was always the mirror-
the way my reflection whispers lies
only I can hear.
It’s in the clothes I choose,
the way fabric touches skin
like a question I can’t answer.
It’s in the quiet math of the day:
how much I ate,
how much I didn’t,
how much guilt weighs
more than any number ever could.
I can look exactly the same-
the same bones,
the same body-
but if I eat
the mirror grows cruel.
It stretches me into something larger,
something unbearable.
And if I don’t eat,
suddenly I feel smaller,
lighter-
as if hunger could carve me
into someone worth seeing.
I know it lives in my head.
I know it’s in my mind.
But knowing doesn’t quiet the voice.
So I stay silent.
I don’t eat-
unless I have to,
unless my mom is watching.
And afterward comes the flood:
guilt,
shame,
a slow collapsing inside my chest
like a building nobody noticed falling.
I feel like I’m dying
somewhere deep inside-
a quiet kind of dying
that leaves no marks
anyone else can see.
Sometimes I wish I could scream,
loud enough
for someone to finally understand.
But my heart doesn’t work that way.
Instead I hide.
I smooth my face into something normal.
I pretend I’m okay.
I pretend I’m fine.
But lately
the mask keeps slipping.
The motivation to pretend
has disappeared somewhere
between sleepless nights
and silent lunches.
Now the sadness inside my head
spreads like fog,
thick and endless.
I don’t smile anymore.
I don’t laugh.
I just sit inside the quiet
and let the hours pass through me.
People notice something is wrong.
I can see it in their eyes.
They ask,
“What’s going on?”
And suddenly
my voice disappears.
I can’t explain it.
I can’t even say
that nothing’s wrong.
The words simply refuse
to exist.
So instead
I unravel slowly
in front of everyone at school-
threads of me falling loose
one by one.
I’m ashamed.
Embarrassed.
But I’m too tired
to keep pretending
that everything is normal.
Because it isn’t.
I am drowning
in water no one else can see,
reaching for air
that never quite reaches my lungs.
And some days
the thought creeps in-
quiet and dangerous-
that maybe
if I just stopped fighting,
the water would finally
be still.