She posted it bold,
like the past had no end,
a thirst trap for ghosts
and a filter for pretend.
Back when she thought
a side pose could heal,
before truth had a shape
and the bloat got real.
No date on her chest —
no sign of the loss.
Just flexin’ her ribs
like they paid her the cost.
That mirror’s a liar,
but it ain’t the worst —
she cropped out the part
where her choices hurt.
Still fishing for “likes”
with a vintage disguise,
while her real reflection
just cries behind eyes.
You ain’t that girl now —
you’ve traded your soul
for a man, a distraction,
and zero control.
You deleted your past
but you post like you’re proud —
like your body’s a protest
of being allowed.
It’s comical, tragic —
like high school still calls.
But your silence is louder
than bathroom stall walls.
A bikini can’t mask
what a breakdown reveals —
You’ve got curves full of secrets
and skin that won’t heal.
So go on, post the “before.”
Pretend you’re still her.
But your trauma’s still visible —
and no filter can blur.