I look at myself, wishing the mirror would turn away.
A fleeting glance, yet it feels like a lifetime of grief.
I look down at my being, searching for something familiar.
But all I see is a body that feels painfully wrong.
I see my flaws, my mistakes, my imperfections, unwanted
I see things that were never meant to belong.
Every scar holds a memory I’d give anything to forget.
And every reflection drags me through my own private hell.
This flesh feels like a prison I was born to carry.
A collection of wrongs beneath a skin I cannot escape.
I fear I’ll never find peace within this borrowed vessel.
No matter how desperately I beg to feel at home.
So I’ll keep living, quietly grieving the flesh I cannot change.