What is my love to you?-
Because the way you hold me tight-
By my hair and throat-
Just doesn't feel right.
Your words are harsh and actions low,
You pull along my skirt,
You tell me lies, that satisfy-
Your need to always hurt.
You pull the measure around my waist,
And pull food out my throat-
Because it makes you feel secured in-
The agenda that you wrote.
Why isn't me good enough,
For the woman you want to see-
The one whom looks wearily-
Into the glassy sea-
A reflection that is not her,
Looking back through droopy eyes-
Waist pulled tight with hair hung low-
She says "I truly tried"
Tears run down her pinked cheeks
The ones you call too chubby
She grips onto a stranger-
Because of the words- "you deserve loving"
But now she has erased you,
From those darkened thoughts-
Dancing through the fields-
No one making her what she's not
_____________________________________
a/n: this story is for my grandmother, who was the main source of my past trauma and body dysmorphia and I'd like to say, it's okay to move on. I have healed significantly since that event and I hope you can move on and heal as well. Sometimes it hurts letting go, but an open wound won't heal if the sword is still lodged between your ribs.
