In the mirror's deceitful gaze,
Flesh folds under fingers' tight embrace,
Each pinch a desperate praise,
To the illusion of a perfect place.
Hands grapple with the skin,
A war beneath the surface fought,
Twisting, pulling from within,
In battles that the mind has wrought.
Eyes trace the body's map,
Every curve a whispered flaw,
In the silent, shadowed trap,
Of dismorphia's gnawing maw.
Hunger sings a siren's call,
Each skipped meal a twisted pride,
In the echo of the empty hall,
Where self-worth and pain collide.
Bones rise like fragile towers,
In a landscape scorched and bare,
A testament to stolen hours,
Spent in the grip of whispered despair.
Yet within this storm's cruel breath,
Lies a heart that yearns to be,
Freed from the chains of living death,
To embrace its true identity.
In the cracks of the mirror's song,
Hope threads its gentle light,
A promise that one day belongs,
To a soul reborn in the night.
YOU ARE READING
we won't cry anymore
Poesiaa collection of poems and writings lying around in my notes app; a part of me, a pinch of my soul and here are my naked thoughts for you. hope you'll like my thoughts. have a good time in my mind!
