Poems

She learns early to fear her reflection. Not for what it shows, but for how much it lies. Some days it stretches her. Some days it shrinks her. Some days it makes her disappear entirely. Still, she looks — because not looking feels like failing, and she has spent her whole life trying not to fail at being someone she never chose to be. There are mornings when her body feels borrowed, stitched together from apologies she never meant to make. She tugs at her shirt, at her skin,

I heard what you said about me today. Did those words feel close to home? We are more similar than you think I can picture you on the scale with tears in your eyes I can see you sitting in front of a plate of food, with knots in your stomach I see you within me But I know me, do you know you? Do you carry the pride of being a kind person on your back, Even though you want to die? Then you aren’t truly me, not really But I don’t see it in that way I see you as hurt I see you

I wake inside this husk of silk as if the world stitched it too small. The walls breathe against me, whispering shapes I should take when I finally tear them open. My own wings worry me. They shine too loudly in the dark, a brightness I never asked for— colors that feel like they belong to braver creatures. I press my body to the chrysalis, feeling its thin certainty, wondering if the world outside measures wingspan like worth. When I move, the chamber tightens— a reminder th

I am the consumer of my imperfections. I wonder if the rolls on my neck can be stripped away. I hear cries and regrets rising from my stomach. I see the numbers on the scale climb higher. I am the consumer of my imperfections. I pretend that I am skinny and able to wear clothes that fit me. I feel the tightness of the fabric cinching my frame. I touch and prod my mind, holding it in chains. I worry that it will never be enough for me. I cry and wail until I purge the doubt. I