Wrong flesh

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.