Metamorphosis in Mirrors

i’ve made a religion out of reinvention—

morphing for spectators who never asked,

shaping myself like wet clay beneath

the weight of their unspoken expectations.

my body a battleground of borrowed ideals,

my mind—

a mausoleum of the girl i used to be

before perfection became my only prayer.

i dilute my spirit daily,

filter flaws through lenses not my own,

as if obscuring them

might grant me sanctuary from scrutiny.

i smile with rehearsed precision,

speak like i’m auditioning for affection.

everything curated,

composed,

contained—

never too much, never too real.

i crave to be that girl—

the effortless silhouette,

the unshakable self-esteem stitched

seamlessly into her skin.

not the echo of myself

i keep offering to the world like a sacrifice.

if i was flawless,

maybe the mirror wouldn’t flinch.

maybe the voices wouldn’t scream

that i’m never enough—

not small enough,

not soft enough,

not something enough.

i ache to be blind to my own ruins.

to wear skin like armor,

to exist without dissecting every inch

for signs of decay.

because maybe—just maybe—

if i could erase the evidence of my humanity,

i could finally feel

what it’s like

to breathe

without shame.