Every time I gaze at the mirror,
a storm of doubts rises within me —

Am I worthy?
Am I beautiful?
Am I doing enough with my life?
Am I ambitionless?
Am I being too carefree?
Am I gaining weight?
…and so many more.

But amidst the flood of questions,
my heart gently whispers:

You are worthy.

It’s not the external beauty that defines you —
It’s your self-love,
your kindness to yourself.

Mirrors only reflect what’s visible.
But what really shapes us
is the change we choose
beyond the glass.

If only there could be
If there could ever be a “we”
I know you have enough
And you can live without
Me, I’m not so sure
Always been left outside

It feels so hard
It’s so hard how you make it easy
I know I have enough
But I don’t have what I need
And maybe I could live without
With you, I feel so sure
I’ll never be alone

Maybe I didn’t pray enough
For it all to become true
It’s miracle enough
That I’ve found myself in this room
But the door will never open
And we can’t transfer

If only there could be
If there could ever be a “we”
I know you have nothing to gain
And everything to lose
Master of manipulation
Do it for the children
Do it for the child

Old habits stick
Like I'm covered in glue
It makes me sick
I can't get them off
No matter what I do

They stain my hands
Stick to my skin
They're outside of me
And within

I try to peel
To scrub and change
But healing and growth
Still feels strange

my bones miss structure
even if it’s borrowed
a timetable stitched from deadlines
just enough to tie me to something
outside my own spiraling

now, all i have is time
feral and barefoot
spilling into corners
where potential goes to wilt
too much of my life for nobody to hold

no duties to tether me
no rush, no reason
just the sound of myself growing louder

my hands itch for anything but survival

let me bleed for burden and responsibility
instead of rotting in my own brain
let me fall apart for someone else

still, i need to stay alive
to wrap the babies in my warmth
to meet the mothers
between screams and surrender
so they’ll finally feel safe with me

for now, i stare at the scars on my wrist
and think of all the pain i’ll carry differently
when it’s not just my own
but from holding too much of another life
and never letting it slip away

the lives i hope to live long enough to see

so when they breathe for the first time
i’ll know how to do it too

I didn’t really know how bad it got, and usually I do.
I tend to keep to myself and stay in my room.
It didn’t look like that this time-
no, it slowly evolved.
There was no sudden switch with all of my body involved.

I don’t smile anymore while drinking my coffee,
and every day at 7:30 my mom asks what’s wrong with me.
I say nothing, that’s just my face,
and try to reassure her that my feelings she mistakes.

I sit with my family and join my daughter in pretend,
oddly, everyone treats me like I’m standing at the edge.

Until one morning my dad gives me a drink,
talks about renovation plans and asks what I think.
But I don’t care, and I don’t know why he’d ask.
He tells me he’s scared I’ll be like him,
and see life like an empty glass.

Which was weird, we never talk that deep-
but he noticed the change in me,
so I had to admit defeat.
I’m no actress, never been in a play,
but I thought I hid my sadness well-
that it wasn’t infecting my day by day.

But I’m a fool, so that’s really no surprise.
Now I really have to heal,
since it’s reached my family’s eyes.

And one night, at two a.m.,
your daughter will grab your face
and say,
"I love you, Mom."
And even though she’s been up for hours,
and your room’s a mess,
and you’re behind on laundry,
and you haven’t had a moment to yourself,
and you’re riddled with anxiety over things that feel unfixable,
and she looks so much like her dad-
all the suffering and pain will melt away for a second,
and you can just be here, in this moment.

There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.

© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma