My fingers dig into my flesh
They pinch and prod and roll
My soft skin like dough
I try to kneed it with vigor
Smoothing out all the lumps
Where I wish I could grab some scissors
But my body does not wish to be molded
It seems to rise with a mind of its own
And I can only watch the silver glass in horror
As it continues to grow
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Author:
Dreamer (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 9th, 2024 04:16
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
Offline)
Comments2
Sounds like a bad dream. I am I right ?
To me, it's a poem about body dysmorphia but I get where you're coming from with the bad dream! I hope you liked it either way :).
Great write
Thank you so much!
You're welcome
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