I am a mausoleum, encased in what hell must feel like. Body tries so hard to love me, and clings to me with both stretch marked ridden arms around my hips, no matter how much I hate her.
I can count the scars and know every battle that happened there, every war that came about because the young girl inside of me couldn’t love herself enough to stay alive.
I am disgusted with myself, and living inside this vessel that I must call home sickens me to my core, even though I wish it didn’t. Even though I wish I was smaller and could look myself in the mirror when I’m naked, or how sometimes when I’m feeling numb I’ll force myself to eat in front of a mirror so I’m no longer hungry.
I am nothing more than a body, a parade balloon being ushered around, wires tied to my wrists for onlookers and lovers and bystanders to see the horror that is I.
Aren’t I?







