(poem)

If you like this body I wear,
I’ll hide it well beneath what I bear.
I used to burn it with such hate,
Left scars behind to mark its fate.
But tell me — am I more than skin?
Or just dumb flesh I’m trapped within?

This body breaks, this body cries,
Yet still those voices echo lies.
But memories come, the child stares,
In awe at teens with hollow glares.
That teen now hates what once felt real —
The body that, five years ago, went still.

It was her who gave the child those blades,
Who drew the stars that cut through shades.
Now art is blood on skin displayed,
And years gone by won’t let it fade.
“Don’t tell your mom,” the whisper pleads —
So only scars hold all the deeds.

I never got the body I craved,
Now numbers on scales keep me enslaved.
Five years since hunger became my meal,
And dinner came with a binge and a steal.
Five years since the body grew cold inside,
Where everything living has long since died.