"When's the last time you ate"
you ask,
a concerned look on your face.

I can feel your eyes
staring through me
like lasers—
like you can see beneath the smile I’ve glued on,
like you already know
what I’m thinking
before I say a word.

I know it’s coming from care,
but it doesn’t feel supportive.

It feels like judgment.
Like being caught
in a moment I didn’t agree to share.

How do I explain to you
that I am terrified of my own reflection—
that I have to force myself
to look in the mirror,
my skin crawling
with distaste,
disappointment,
and the kind of quiet hatred
you’re never supposed to admit?

How do you tell someone
that you shower in the dark—
not to save electricity,
not for relaxation—
but because it’s the only time
you can’t hide from the truth?

Because if you did,
you’d have to confront it:
the imperfections
that live in every inch of your skin.
The war zone
that is your body.

I sigh.

Because there is no real way
to show you what it feels like—
to grow so tired
of living in this body
that your skin
literally crawls.

Like something inside of you
is thrashing
to get out.
Like every cell
is fighting the prison
you’ve been given.

Like your spirit
has grown too big
for this haunted house of flesh,
and it’s begging
to burst through the seams.

When your body feels hot
and sweaty
and wrong—
so wrong—
you start to wonder
if anything
could make it stop.

And for a second,
you'd do anything
to escape it.
To shed it.
To stop existing
inside of it.

Because there’s a kind of pain
that doesn’t scream.
It crawls.
It whispers.
It infects.
It lives under your skin
like a parasite
and tells you,
every single day:
you are unlovable.

And I wish
I could show you that feeling.

But there are no words
that make a body feel like home
once it already feels
like a trap.

He doesn’t want you.

Not really.

He likes the way your eyes lift
when he walks into a room.
He likes the power—
the way you shift in your seat,
hoping,
praying,
that today will be the day
he finally sees you.

Not just looks at you—
sees you.

He doesn’t want you.

But he knows just how much to give—
just enough.
A glance.
A half-smile.
A “hey” sent too late at night.

Just enough
to make you wonder
if maybe
you weren’t imagining it.

Just enough
to keep your heart pacing in place
while he walks
in and out
of your hope.

He doesn’t want you.

But it feels like he knows
how badly you want to be wanted.
Like he can hear your pulse
quicken when his name
lights up your phone.

Like he knows
how deep your emptiness runs.
How much you’re willing to give
just to feel like
you’re worth something
to someone.

He doesn’t want you.

Because if he did—
he would’ve said it.
Would’ve shown it.
Would’ve fought for you.

You know that.
And still—

you ache for him.

Because the less he gives,
the more you need.
And there’s something sick
about craving a hunger
he will never feed.

He was just a crush.
A face.
A fleeting moment
you could’ve brushed off.

But now,
he’s a constant in your head.

You’ve built him a home
in your daydreams.
Rehearsed every scene.
Felt the weight of his hand
in yours
a thousand times—
all without ever knowing
what his voice sounds like
when he says your name with care.

He doesn’t want you.
And still—
you wait.

You write stories in silence.
You craft versions of him
so much better
than the real thing could ever be.

And maybe he knows
this is as close
as you’ll ever get.

Because he likes being the unreachable one.
The one you’ll never touch.
The one who never has to give you more.

Because if he wanted you—
really wanted you—
you’d give him everything.

Your time.
Your softness.
Your heart,
shaking and wide open.

And maybe you know
you’d never get that back.

Maybe that’s why
you fall in love with the dream,
not the boy.

Because the dream
has never broken your heart.

Not like people do.

Because you only ever wanted him
from across the room.
Only ever needed him
to maybe want you.

And if he ever did?

You’d run.

Because what you love
isn’t him—
it’s the aching.
The hope.
The almost.
The could’ve been.

He doesn’t want you.

And maybe that’s mercy.

Because the fantasy
will always love you back.
And the real thing—

the real thing
might not.

my sister doesn’t even flinch
before casting the verdict—
eyes dragging across my body
like she’s measuring
the damage.

her gaze says what her mouth almost doesn’t,
but she whispers it anyway—
not quiet,
not kind.

i say yes to dessert
and that’s the offense.
that’s the crime.

“how can you still be hungry?”
she spits,
eyebrow sharpened like a knife,
slicing straight through me.

like i’m some strange,
unstable thing—
a creature
too greedy,
too foreign,
too much.

i want to scream at her—
tear through the silence
with all the words i choke down
just to keep the peace.

i know it’s her own insecurity
speaking through gritted teeth,
but that doesn’t dull the sting.

her words hit like needles
hurled at my back,
one after another,
sharp and deliberate—
tiny wounds
that don’t bleed,
but burn.

and just like that,
my appetite disappears—
shrivels inside me
like a flower dying in fast-forward.

i want to purge it all—
the food,
the shame,
the heat of being seen.

i want my stomach to echo
the hollowness in my head—
match the silence i’ve been feeding
for years.

but of course,
i don’t.

good girls don’t break.
good girls don’t fall apart
at the dinner table.
good girls don’t have these thoughts.

and me—
i’ve always been one,
haven’t i?

still,
this feeling won’t let go.

i want to scream,
i’m trying so hard right now.
but all that comes out
is a quiet shrug,
like i’m not unraveling
under the surface.

the truth is,
my whole body
feels like it’s about to burst—
a storm held together
with clenched teeth
and shallow breath.

i want to slam my hands down,
want to shout,
to shake her into understanding—
but more than that,
i want to shake myself.

shake this version of me
that feels too much,
asks too much,
makes everything
so much harder
than it should be.

i look down
at the empty plate in front of me,
and i already know
how the rest of this night will go.

i’ll sit with the weight of it all—
not just the food,
but the decision,
the doubt,
the way it settles
in the pit of me
like a secret.

i’ll cry quietly,
because regret doesn’t scream,
it sinks.

i’ll replay the moment—
that second helping of pasta
i didn’t really need,
but wanted.

and when it’s all gone,
and my stomach aches
from fullness i mistook for comfort,
the truth will return:

nothing i can consume
will ever taste
as sweet
as the version of myself
i still don’t believe i deserve to be.

the nausea i feel
after skipping meals—
it’s nothing
compared to the nausea
that comes after
eating every last bite.

and still,
when her words land—
blunt, careless—
i want to scream,
to kick,
to tear through the silence.

but all i do
is shrug.

because it’s not her fault
that i’m so fragile—
so painfully sensitive
to every not-so-subtle jab.

and if i’m cursed
to carry this body,
to wear this skin,

then maybe i’ll wear kindness too.

because being harsh?
that’s a game
for the pretty,
the skinny—

and not all of us
get to be so lucky
to have our looks
make up for what’s missing inside.

eye-catching confessions of love
and public displays of affection
can never disappoint—

to be loved
so loudly,
so proudly,
that someone would go to any length
to prove it to the world—
it’s beautiful.
it’s enviable.

but more than anything,
i want him
to love me in private.

i want his love
when no one is watching—
not dressed up for an audience,
not rehearsed
or filtered
for effect.

i want him to love me
quietly,
deeply,
truly—
because that’s what lives
in his chest,
not just what he wants
the world to see.

i want him
to remember the little things—
what makes me laugh,
what softens me,
what pulls me back
when i’m fading.

i want the private moments
to matter more
than any grand gesture.
i want silence
that feels like safety,
eye contact
that says i know you,
not i want to be seen loving you.

i don’t need an audience
for love.
i don’t need people to know
how deeply i feel.

My knowing
is enough.
his knowing
should be enough.

because a quiet love,
a private love—
that’s the kind
that stays.

I made myself smaller
just to be kept by you—
softened my footsteps,
quieted my opinions,
shrunk myself
so you wouldn’t have to feel me
in the palm of your hand.

so you wouldn’t have to try.
wouldn’t have to work
to keep me around.

I let go of everything
that made me who I was—
every loud quirk,
every sharp edge,
every piece of color
I used to carry with pride.

I held my breath
so long
I forgot the feeling
of being a person.

forgot what it meant
to be real.
to have needs.
to feel things
out loud.

I drowned in my own thoughts,
because I forbid myself
from speaking them.
I tore myself to pieces
trying to be enough—
or maybe
just trying to be so small,
so weightless,
so easy,
you’d forget you lost interest
and keep me
a little longer.

I tiptoed around truth,
stopped saying how I felt,
stopped trying to help you.

I knew
I couldn’t change you—
so I destroyed myself
trying to change
for you.

I whittled myself down
to a speck.
a whisper
of who I used to be.

I started saying everything
you wanted to hear,
because I didn’t think
you liked me enough
to fight for better—
for us.
for me.

and you didn’t.

so all that time
I spent ripping myself to shreds,
hiding every fiber
of what made me me—
you let go of me
anyway.

when you opened your hand,
I held on
as tight as I could.

I held on
so you wouldn’t have to.
I held on
for both of us.

but my arms
grew tired.
my bones—
fragile.
my body—
too broken
to carry the weight alone.

you were stronger.
you always were.

and I died
giving all my strength
to you.

I handed you my heart
on a silver platter.
you let me go,
but you never let it go.
you still carry it.
even now.

I gave everything
until I was
nothing—
too weak
to find myself again,
covered in scars
from the places
I tore myself apart.

and you—
you walked away
with a boosted ego
and pieces of me
you never deserved.

you don't care about her clothes
you care to look
the way she does
when she's wearing them.

sure,
you think her jeans are cute,
but it's not really the jeans
you want.
you want the body
that's wearing them

society knew exactly where to press
soft spots shaped by comparison,
twisting our hunger for confidence
into craving perfection.

they dressed up the lie:
paper-thin models, bronzed skin,
limbs like marble
features sculpted by lighting
and a team of stylists.

they told us,
buy the dress
and you'll become her.

so we learned
to place our faces
on bodies that aren't ours
legs for days,
poreless skin,
cheekbones that never belonged
to girls like us.

and when the package arrives,
we run upstairs,
heart beating,
ready to meet the new version
of ourselves,
only to find
the same body,
the same softness
gripping the straps
of a size zero dress
you've might've fit into
last year.

and in that mirror,
it becomes clear:
the 20-inch waist,
the thigh gap,
they don't come with the dress.

and maybe,
just maybe,
life would be easier
if we stopped asking fabric
to fix what shame
never should've touched.

no dress,
no pair of jeans,
is going to make you
love yourself
the way you long to.