you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
now everybody’s doing it.
that’s not to say
i haven’t seen how
your eyes roam over
your body like you’d been
stitched together with all
the wrong fabrics
i don’t think
i’ve ever seen you
look as dissatisfied as
when you look
at yourself.
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just like
an std, everybody’s had it
at some point.
it’s just that some people
were smart enough to
use protection or are abstinent
and they’re the ones
who sleep easy at night
while you’ve always got an itch
to scratch it was never clear
how they toed the line
between their self love
and hate better
than others and you
were their other,
caught them staring
and couldn’t tell the line
between love and hate
(thought you saw it
split the ground open
wanted to dip your toes
into the nothing between
you were scared
you’d fall in).
but you won’t tell
me what it’s like
when you look at yourself,
and your reflection
is rag-doll ragged
the perfect pincushion
and you pinpoint
all the split seams
moth holes your
smile is just a
loose thread you stop
to unravel
and you won’t say
what it’s like
when your reflection is
all pins and points
and you’re not sure
if the rag-doll face
underneath is still
there, at one point
she smiles
like only girls with pins
in their lips can,
her lips unravel
(you don’t smile).
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
there’s no way you’d
be caught dead
doing it.
i’ve seen the red-capped pins
you keep with your make-up.
they look so much
like my own.
hey.
are you still there?
i can't see you beneath
all those pins.
