i still can’t quite decide
who is deceiving me the most:
the mirror,
my eyes,
or your possible lies.

i look down to find a body
under-grown for my age,
disproportionate and sad.
i feel the skin,
soft and immature.

i look to the mirror,
the remains of darkness from the previous night
lay under my eyes,

i feel fat.

my face widens and contorts.
is my brain doing this?
do i look like this?

the demons behind my eyes are laughing.

i keep quiet about the things i see
when i look at my meaty cage,
but you say lovely words that
fill my dread and loneliness with

i try to convince myself you’re not
what would there be to gain?

i trust you,
but i cannot unsee
the things i’ve seen.

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