“I hate myself,”
the girl in the corner whispers,
saying what she knows the voice inside her will chant,
something to bring her back
from the tormenting anguish inside her head.
“It’s not getting any better,”
she whispers, more urgent, more alarming, wondering
what is happening to her.
She’s done everything everyone else was doing,
everything she thought she was supposed to do.
And as her stomach grows smaller,
her clothing size shrinks;
as her scars, of self harm, accumulate,
arising to be bigger and bigger;
and the raging riot of dashed hopes
and tribulation inside her head
grows deeper, and deeper
society tries to feed her, grateful to empty her vile filled mouth.
She tries to make us think we can be magazine-model perfect;
and wins the war when we notice our flaws.