Under my skin,
there’s a storm that’s swirling wild,
a stomach bloated with shadows,
a perception defiled.
Each reflection’s a sentence,
in mirrors I’m trapped,
my belly a burden
that’s endlessly mapped.
I dream of hollow,
an echo of peace,
where the contours of torment
find their release.
Wrapped tight in silence,
craving the void,
where the weight of emptiness
is fully deployed.
Through the fabric,
my fingers trace the lines I despise,
a contour that rebels,
swelling before my eyes.
I wrap tighter,
a breathless grip on my waist,
in the mirror,
a figure I long to erase.
I yearn for a chisel,
to sculpt away the fear,
each curve and edge
that I cannot bear.
A fantasy of flatness,
where nothing can hide,
no depth, no substance,
just space inside.
In the quietest corners of the night,
I confess,
a vision of vanishing,
a whisper of less.
No pulse, no pain,
beneath the skin’s small swell,
in the hollow of dreams,
where I long to dwell.