break

i miss the body that was breaking me.

*

the one that felt sharp at the edges,

all angles and almost gone

like if I disappeared just right,

maybe i'd be worth keeping.

*

now i feel too much.

too visible.

my skin is louder than my voice

(which already is so terribly obnoxious)

and every inch of me is something

i failed to erase.

*

i used to be hollow—

i used to feel clean.

*

but now i have to carry the weight of myself

everywhere I go.

*

i hate the body that survived,

hate the way it refuses to vanish

at least if i had died back then i would've died beautiful.

*

there’s a voice in me that still keeps score,

still speaks to me,

weighs down my shoulder and whispers in my ear

you were better when you were worse.

the other day my therapist asked me who's voice it was

i told her i didn't know.

my mother's, maybe.

*

but sometimes,

in the quiet dim of my room,

that voice sounds just like me.