i don’t like what i see in the mirror
because i am nothing more than an ugly mess.

tired eyes
flabby tummy and big thighs
self harm scars
and layers of skins enough to hide my confidence.

i don’t like my reflection.
i don’t like them at all.

i was told that i was perfect the way i am
but then they would tell me
“maybe if you lose weight a little bit more
you could get rid of that chubby cheeks and double chin”.

so i skipped breakfast,
and lunch,
and dinner,
and sometimes i lose control and puke all the way out.
my throat would burn but i felt victorious.

and just like that i spend days and weeks and months and every moments counting calories that will flow down inside this mouth
one hundred
two hundred
not more than three
or else their terrifying gazes will speak to me and say
“ew, disgusting.”

i hate my reflection and i dislike my being
because who would have loved a person like me,
a person with self love the size of a teardrop?

and then they told me again that i don’t have to go on diet because i’ve got the body of Victoria’s Secret’s models

but again,
why would he left me for a girl
well,
she has smaller wrist, bigger chest and she’s always alive
i don’t blame him though
i am really not enough, right?

because anyone can say those three words
and anyone can say you’re perfect
as long as you fit their idea of perfection

i am no goddess and i know my place

but maybe
just maybe
someday,
i will finally be enough.

Wish I was
Wish you weren't
Wish we did
But we couldn't.

A better time
A better place
A better life
In your embrace

Just more pain
Nothing new
Another scar
But I knew

That stories change
but end the same
Always thinking:
"Am I to blame ?"

The burning flames of pain lick at my scorched and fragile soul, I fear that one more heartbreak will leave it crumbling into ashes.

My heart welcomes despair with open arms, he tells me all the things I don't want to hear.
Tells me all the truths I run from during the day, but I cannot escape them as the sun goes down.

They scrape at me, scratching incessantly at my delicate soul, they coat me with their words, their bitter carefully selected truth that I cannot tune out.

Death becomes more appealing, why should I not end my suffering and give in to the sweet caress of misery?
Giving up has never seemed more alluring than it does at 2 am. It seduces me with promises of peace and silence.

Silence from the voices that are constantly screaming at me. I cannot drown them out, their echoes are deafening in my ears. Haunting, they are all I can hear.

Despair is my constant companion, whispering in my ear. Hope helps me tune him out and quiet the hurting. Hope continues to save me, hope is all that I can cling to when the world gets too dark to pretend that I am normal.

I will never be normal, I do not know how to be happy. My self hate chokes me, the pressure of being alive is a constant weight on my chest. I will never escape this.

But hope is there to soothe me, telling me all will be okay even if I know deep down I will not be. Hope chases away the attraction of death, for one more day.
I fear for the day that death becomes too enticing to ignore,
for now hope drives it away, leaving the dull aching and the desperate wanting to be gone.

Her body is not an empty canvas,
it's a hilly mountain, uneven and lopsided
some parts portruding -- sometimes soft,
sometimes bony
It's the waves of the sea, ebb and flow, changing
One time she is okay with what she sees,
the next she wants nothing more but to get rid
of the excess, of the parts that don't please her
Her body is crossed with scars, all the things
she doesn't like highlighted in white,
marked

She's not happy