There is a disparity
between my mind and my body,
like wearing a suit two sizes too small
and pressing out desperately
but unable to flee.
Looking in the mirror, facing fears,
hyper aware of the weight pulling
at my chest, my heart.
Further down, there is nothing
where there should be something.
Afraid to tell loved ones
that I do not want to hear my name
from their lips. I want to cover my ears,
my eyes, my tears,
when my mother tells me
that I will always be her beautiful baby girl.
a swollen mass in the pit of my stomach,
ugly, infected with self-loathing,
and the wetness on my cheeks
as I add one more to the tally on my legs,
watch the blood trickle down my ankle.
They ask why I do it, their own tears
adding to my pool of guilt.
I want to be able to tell them
it’s because those legs belong to a girl
and I hate them.