It is out of compulsion that I pinch my skin –
my nails slowly digging into the brown,
leaving crescent dents onto my arms and back.
These scars, these stories, written in gory all over my body
I can see them trying to talk to each other
like letters written in a book
I am a melting language, meant for only myself to read.
This mirror that I stand in front of
changes my reflection and all I can compare myself to is
the moon. I have craters and sometimes I am full,
sometimes I am curved and halved and beautifully rigid,
and other times I disappear into the slow void.
Perhaps I am beautiful to someone,
and not just the beauty of my words
but the beauty of my body-
the physical, tangible, what he can feel, what he can see.
I have an unnecessary urge to be loved on the outside.
Sometimes I try to stop,
I paint my nails and I look at other girls
and their clear, unmarred backs.
But the tension always escapes
it grips my fingers and they find their way back
to the old, weary path.
I resort to forever being ugly to the mirror.
My reflection must feel sorry
for being so unloved,
and I want to reach into the mirror and grab her by the head
and tell her, “you’re going to be okay.”
But I can barely tell that to myself.
And sometimes I wonder,
why do we take a physical form at all?