Empty bags and candy wrappers Left strewn about From my last attempt To fill this feeling To suppress this anxiety Only for it to fail And give birth to a different sickness
The rage I feel when I look in the mirror The body I was given And all that I have done to it I want it to be beautiful But just can’t keep up with the work So the burning grows inside I’ve gotta let it out And I want it to hurt
There’s no one else to blame No other half I’ve just one brain There is no wicked tempter Only chemically driven impulse I only lose my temper on myself I want to squeeze til there’s no pulse I want to shatter my mirror And use the broken pieces To carve the body I wished to see When the mirror was whole
I sit inside a body in blood that isnt my own. There are voices calling out a name, a name attached to this vessel. It's not mine. I am conscious of my state, this sentience pains me. I know what's out there. I know my potential, what I could be. This barrier of skin and blood prevents me. It hurts. I'll sit in this shell of a body to be perceived by those who happen to pass by. Wading in blood that isnt my own, with skin like marble begging to be carved into, and I won't mind. This body isnt my body, my body is inside.
I wrote this inspired by a nightmare I had once, where I was trapped in the shell of a plastic gargoyle, sitting in blood that I knew wasn't mine. Looking back on it, my brain was probably trying to make sense of my feelings, but the nightmare has stuck with me.
This body is so cumbersome and empty full of bones I dream of breaking
so ****** the idea has become that I ****** to the thought
of how great the spoils are of wasting this perfect body away
I am growing tired of this skin how it hold me captive
gripping tightly to the ivory prison I gush, the thought of carving in
A primitive temptress, a ghost of the past a shadow on white fair skin
How I wish to paint it red, to rekindle my flame again
How cumbersome this body can be
It’s been ******, and hit, and starved, and stuffed What more could I wish to be done?
It craves the oil in a pain of rage It loves how my skin must boil
Oh god may I ask Was this what you intended When you created man in your image Do you hate yourself just as so So am I just another flawed creature born from a perfect god. Destined to stray from his lies.
"You're beautiful" A stranger so plainly writes The notification appears so clearly At top of screen You pull and stretch your shirt So as to better hide your body Stumbling towards the mirror You prepare yourself for battle The dysmorphia of your body So violently attacks your subconscious Every mirror, camera, reflection in window So clearly reminds you of ugliness, the shadow that creeps behind, that you can't escape from You pick at your body Squeeze, pinch, and dissect every cell As you find each and every thing Wrong You long for the day where you say "I'm beautiful"
Did you ever think we could've been twins? Not like born together. Not fused like the two sides of an oyster encapsulating a precious pearl. No, I mean like the two sides of a mirror. Perfect opposites. Equally opposite damaged from long days of staring and hoping, and laughing and crying. Begging for things to maybe resolve, maybe become clearer. Maybe disappear with the steam of the 2.AM shower in the pitch dark. Hiding imperfections so that maybe they won't exist. I want to look at us both without fear of what I might see. I want to see the correct way of viewing things and not the enhanced wrongness of a backward reflection. If we are the same then tell me that from your side we are better. That from your side we are stronger. That....just maybe...from your side, I am right for once.
The hands that are locked inside my body pull at my ribcage. We'll make you an angel, they say, but that means tearing my flesh apart. I beg them – please, take my brain, pull it and mould it and set it on fire. The brain is too precious, they spit, and I want to die. I want to die to make myself something else. Something... palatable. Something that I can chew and swallow all at once.
Instead, they bite. God, they sink their seraphim teeth into the flesh that I call myself. And they digest.
And what of the brain? Alive, immobile, it waits. In pain, it waits. Screams. Begs for release. But these angels are not from Heaven, nor do they caress broken bones once they have devoured.