every morning I wake up
at four o'clock —
not four-oh-five,
not four-fifteen —
four, on the dot.
I take a shower to cleanse
my sins
and get pasty with lotion
and stink of my perfume —
vanilla and cashmere.
I get a mirror
and all of my supplies
that I apply
to my hair, face, and eyes,
and she almost looks familiar...
a fractured version
of the girl who could be,
she's kind of like me!
I dress myself to show off
my waist, so close to the bone.
when you're a fatass,
you have to wear your weight well.
do it right,
suck it in,
nothing else matters.
there is an idea of Hayleigh;
the girl who could be,
but that you won't need
otherwise.
and though I can hide my
cold gaze
and you can shake my hand
and feel flesh gripping yours,
I simply am not there.
-
Author:
๐ฑ๐ช๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ฒ๐ฐ๐ฑ (
Online) - Published: September 2nd, 2025 18:48
- Comment from author about the poem: I spend a shameful amount of my time comparing myself to others to the point where my appearance is all I think about.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 7
- Users favorite of this poem: Frรคnz Mรผller
Online)
Comments2
The division between real self and perceived self in this poem nicely defined in physical appearance well done
thanks
You are most welcome
Hayleigh, wonderful write. The ritual and the mirror build to that line....โa fractured version of the girl who could beโ...and it lingers, fragile and raw. Powerful work, my friendโฆhaunting in its honesty. ๐น๐ค๐๐ฏ๏ธ๐ฆโโฌ
thank you
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