and by that i mean,
will someone ever cherish it
like i try to do.

and even in the highs, the lows still linger
i told you i loved myself but i'm not made of magic
my skull is thick but still,
it cracks open

i can fool me and you and them but
i have bones wrapped in twenty years of self hate,
and what is loving yourself if not screaming at mirrors and pictures and empty hands

so, please darling, sweet honey, i know i said i was okay
but dont let your words cut sharper than the blades i already plunged through my own **** skin.

Everybody has told me,
that I'm too thick,
that I'm too heavy,
and not good enough.

They told me,
that I'm disgusting,
revolting,
and annoying.

But, recently I've learned,
that nobody is perfect,
and everybody's ideal,
isn't the same as somebody else's.

I think perfection is an idea,
one we have fabricated,
'cause we can't handle,
the fact that we're disliked.

You can't please everyone,
that's what I've learned,
so I'll forgive you.
'Cause I'm an imperfectly perfect person.

Picking at my skin,
making me bleed,
scent of flesh,
melting with the rouge.

Stuffing up my chest,
with a knife to my skin,
playing doctor one-on-one,
******* in my breath.

Am I pretty enough?
Are my thoughts pure enough?
Am I desirable enough?
Obedient enough?

Overemotional,
heart too big for my body,
keeps leaking out.
It's better with my mouth shut.

I'll gloss my lips,
twisting up my insides,
I'll become all that you want,
until only a shell remains.

i want to rip off my own skin

piece by piece

and stitch it back together

so that it matches hers


i want to carve my cries

into each and every bone

filing away at myself

until I fit her frame


i want to cut and cut and cut

slashing down to my core

until there is only enough fat

to mold myself into her shape


i want to scrape off my

STUPID

*******

FACE

erasing every feature

until my very essence has disappeared

and i

LOOK

LIKE

HER


her

the ever changing image of beauty

the elusive illusion of perfection


the woman we all strive to be

the woman

the image

the ideal

the ideal that not even she herself can attain

My mind is like a recorder
One that keeps replaying
Every bad thought in order
Hope and optimism decaying.

My mind is like a giant maze
One with many turns and twists
Getting lost happens always
Does the way out really exists?

My mind is like a broken vinyl
One with scratches everywhere
Every damage seems so final
It looks impossible to repair.

My mind is like an eraser
One that makes me forget
Turning me into a disgracer
What's left is only regret.

Reflections
by Michael R. Burch

I am her mirror.
I say she is kind,
lovely, breathtaking.
She screams that I’m blind.

I show her her beauty,
her brilliance and compassion.
She refuses to believe me,
for that’s the latest fashion.

She storms and she rages;
she dissolves into tears
while envious Angels
are, by God, her only Peers.

Keywords/Tags: reflection, mirror, image, anorexia, bulimia, cutting, reflections, self-image, self-worth, self-criticism, self-shaming, mrbref