Skin
My face isn’t perfect.
But nothing is, right?
We’re all cut from the same cloth anyway,
so we’re really just a whole together.
I’m all lines and skinny bones, but who’s keeping track, really?
there was a time my face
started seeming unfamiliar
when i looked
inside the mirror.
i wasn’t looking at me, but at
somebody else completely.
sure, some things matched.
those same jealous eyes.
the same thick, angry eyebrows.
i had changed,
and i knew it.
i wasn’t the same little girl anymore.
and so i cried.
i cried and i hid,
from the world, from myself.
i wanted to rip the ugly coat i was wearing
that i bought three sizes too big, or three
sizes too small, off my body.
my tiny body, worthless,
riddled with invisible scars.
how could i do this to myself?
after all i’d worked for?
summer ended, and fall came.
i started school again.
repeat, repeat, repeat.
the same cycles went on and on
for far too long. i wish i could say
something happened then to lift my yielding
spirits, but i have nothing to say.
nothing at all. i was a cold,
hard bottle of dry
tears made from
collecting dust.
that hasn't changed.
