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.

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"

im soft right now

and part of me wonders

will you love me when im no longer soft

when my muscles shift and my hips get bony

will you tell me to put on a few pounds

put some meat on my bones

when im no longer a soprano or even an alto

will you tell me my voice is too loud and booming

that i should speak softly

when hair blankets my body like moss on a stone

will you tell me my kisses hurt you

that if i dont shave every day its too itchy to bear

will my body be the end of us

i hope not



because under enough blankets my hips wont poke you

and after enough lullabies everything feels quiet

and with enough beard oil anything is soft enough to kiss

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.

Out it comes -
the feelings, nerves, anxiety
You may catch but a glimpse of what I actually feel,
but I doubt it -
Even I only see the meal.

It's become second nature.
I don't even think anymore,
just to end up doing it more and more.
Someday I'll have to stop,
but for now, I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor.

Since I was littler,
it's always made me cry.
But it's not a luxury, rather a nessecity.
Thinking about it now,
I don't even want your pity.

I keep going and going,
not realizing the pressure manipulating me,
and that in reality - I'm suffering from a disease.
One day, I'll have to give it up,
but right now I'm too terrified to cease.

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.

my skin is a mask
restricting and choking me
as I try to move