*Trigger warning*
You can’t see she’s there.
And most of the time I forget she’s there too
but only because she decides to stay hidden.
You’ll catch a glimpse of her when I’m looking in the mirror
too long
and the only thing that begins to look back is a morphed body
wrapped in a gown of blades.
She’ll hint at her constant existence with every wince
that follows a compliment or
every awkward “thank you”
because denying it will only mean talking about it further.
I watch her seep through my skin every time
the shorts aren’t high enough or
the glasses accentuate the bridge too much
or the hair doesn’t match the magazines.
She’ll always be there…
It’s nothing you did and nothing I did.
It’s nothing you can fix and it’s nothing I can fix.
A disease like her can be helped but can’t be cured…
She can be lost but not killed…
She can show mercy but never forgiveness and so
She’ll always be there.