mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?
cw: body image
"skin of ivory,
topaz freckles.
ellipse-framed face,
chocolate waves for hair.
silk soft hands,
immaculate nails."
that's what they see,
that's what they say.
she curls in upon herself,
in an attempt to hide from the mirror's prying eyes.
it fails and
the mirror beckons with spider web cracks for fingers.
it sees what they do not,
hidden cunningly beneath a shiny exterior.
dark dank rot taking root in her core,
spreading from lung to rib; running black hot in her veins.
it sees the void behind eyes of sea and pebbles,
a festering knot of decay and spoil.
the mirror sees what nobody else sees
and smiles with sharpened canines and speaks truths in silver tongues.
Pol's Free Verse :O
39 posts in this topic.
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cw: abuse(?*), self-harm, cursing (the spoilers at bottom)
they say "i love you" and then shove a table into my gut,
all in the same breath with no hesitation.
they apologize two hours twenty-three minutes later
but no "sorry" will ever hide the bruising.
they repeat the same mantra over and over,
sounding like a broken record of "sorry"s and "i love you"s
but in the end they still withhold dinner,
dangling it above my head like a cat does to a mouse.
and they wonder, two years later, why i scarf down meals
with all the grace of a rabid animal who hasn't seen food in months.
and they wonder why my hands shake and i flinch
every time they shout, shoulders hunched in like i can fold myself over.
bruises litter my skin, part of it from running into walls and desks,
but part of it is from running from bitter faces and angry hands.
my skin is marked, iron-tipped nails ripping into flesh for relief
and blaming the left behind scratches on the dog.
they call it "dermatillomania" and "picker's syndrome",
said it was all mental and to just stop
but it was habits formed out of pent up
frustration and stress and sheer disbelief at the disregard they had for their own daughter's life.
they said it was all in my mind,
the anxiety, the stress.
that i had a happy, loving family
and i was perfectly fine.
i'm not.
i'm drowning in my own blood
and choking on my tongue
when i try to say so.
...
(it's all in my mind.
every last drop of anxiety,
i have a happy, loving family.
i'm perfectly fine.)
*rant below (be warned):Spoiler
I think it's abuse. I'm not even sure anymore, it's just...f-cking exhausting dealing with my family. I'm constantly told it's all in my mind, my aversion to certain textures and tastes, my anxiety, the fact my bones constantly ache and sometimes it's so bad I can barely get up in the morning. My fingers shake horribly, I drop things all the time because they lock up and freeze or randomly get weak. They say I have a "victim mentality" and that I'm selfish for not finishing my food because I physically can't, my stomach is too full, or I'm selfish for spending time with my friends instead of with them but when I'm at home I suffer lectures and screaming. More nights than not I stay up til two in the morning because I. Can't. Sleep. They say it's because I drank caffeine, or had too much sugar. I DON'T DRINK CAFFEINE and I rarely eat, so where would I even get the sugar from??? I'm just so fucking tired of it all. Like yeah, I'm grateful they put a roof over my head and food on the table but I'm their child, aren't they supposed to do that anyways? Why are they constantly bringing it up as a point to me being selfish or spoiled? THEY'RE the ones who had me, I didn't want to be brought into this world, I didn't ask for this.
Wow, my rant is longer than the poem. Ignore me, I'm just sick and tired <3 -
CW: drugs/overdose, self-harm, body dysmorphia
The first free verse poem I ever wrote. It's...uh...yeah. It's interesting.Spoiler
Glasses and a permanent scar in the shape of a star on the bridge of their nose.
Shaking hands that can barely hold a pencil, let alone type.
Palms too small, fingers too long, for holding.
Tiny nose, tiny mouth, too many freckles.
One eye, slightly bigger than the other, gray-brown in colour.
A stutter when public speaking and a squinty gaze.
[/I]Ugly, Society crows between giggles, ugly.
Two left feet and old, muddy shoes to boot.
A crooked smile, not cute, gap-toothed with too thin lips.
Covered in golden dog hair constantly,
Scratches and pockmarks lining their arms and legs and hands.
They blame it on the dog; Society doesn't know them enough to do anything but nod.
A snort-wheeze laugh that dissolves into coughing after thirty seconds.
Don't laugh again, Society says sternly, it doesn't sound good.
Okay, they echo, it doesn't sound good.
So they stop laughing, and smiles fade into frowns.
The only solaces they find is in their own shaky hands, holding a pencil to paper, or fingers to keyboard.
They turn to their own imagination, building stories out of wayward thoughts.
Universes, created in the span of a second.
One Google Doc turned into seven, to fifteen.
Their grades slipped, from all As, to Bs, to Ds.
They never failed, of course.
They were smart enough for that, but never smart enough for their parents.
Music guided them through struggles, the feeling of slippery brass under hand keeping them sane when nothing else would.
Worlds built and written by their own hands kept them stabilized when parents screamed, words dissolving into bubbles that just...
Popped, fading away into nothing.
Music, to keep them company.
Characters, to talk to when the nights got too dark and nightmares kept sleep at bay.
They fought, tooth and nail, sword and shield, for their sleep.
Insomnia had them in its grasp, a sharp, feral thing that didn't take no for an answer.
One pill became two, became four, became eight.
Sleep eluded them still.
Music was a thing of the past, their spark was gone.
Worlds crumbled to ash, burnt beneath the heavy weight of Society's eyes.
They crumbled. To pieces, falling down and down like Theseus.
Society didn't care, why should they?
Everything they had strived for, gone in a blink of an eye.
No.
Not the blink of an eye.
Gone over the course of a week, a month, a year.
Everything had corrupted beneath their very feet and they were so distracted trying to please Society, they didn't notice.
Down they fell, like Icarus.
Wax melted by the scorching gaze of Society,
falling down into the cold embrace of depression in a flurry of feathers.
An empty pill container under their pillow, a knife in the drawer.
Bloodstained sheets, dripping fresh crimson onto the floor.
One cut, two cuts, till they couldn't feel no more.
Too deep?
Nah, not deep enough.
So they pushed harder, skin breaking beneath the sharp of the blade, hacking at muscle.
If anyone asked the next day, they laughed and said;
"I'm fine, it's just my cat."
They didn't have a cat.
But then a miracle in the form of a link came.
A chatroom, built for those with overactive imaginations and nowhere to put it.
People like them, people who had it better, people who had it worse.
People who were shunned by Society, just like them.
Just like them, just like them.
Salvation came in the form of a singular word;
"Hello!"
And suddenly they didn't have to care anymore. -
under the bed is my safe space.
nothing can touch me there.
wood slats pressed against my back,
carpet and metal engraving itself into my palms
leaving swirls in the lines of my skin as a distraction from the voices outside.
it's cold in my safe space under the bed,
gusts of air washing across my face
as the pressure subsides in my head
to gentle ebbing waves of manageable agony.
they search for me,
smacking fists against the walls in frustration
but they never think
to peer under the bed.
under my bed is a safe space,
suffocatingly tight, darkness
wrapping arms around me
to comfort me in my solitude.
they beckon and call first with sickeningly sweet worry
and then later with anger
but i stay under, drowning
in a sea of cold black ice.
(nothing can hurt me there.
under my bed is my safe space.) -
These are so good
-
fear
in my throat
choking
on it
it tastes
like crab apple
and tainted
love
which tastes
like soured
milk
left to rot
in the fridge
for two
months
and seventeen
days
it coats
my
tongue
and my
heart
wraps around
my ribcage
in waves of terrorhorrorfear
and sometimes
angerdespairrage
but
in the end
i am
choking
on fear. -
Thank you!! ^^
-
rotting in bed, sick with worry
while my bones decompose
and my flesh falls off
as i type message after message
trying to send lovecareconcern
but all i get back is unwavering silence
and dozens of unread messages.
i'm down to worn bone
in my fingertips as i press button
after button after button
as the skin wears away
and the only response i get
is silence. -
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