𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐋𝐞𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢!

I need to be down forty pounds by December’s cold breath, to stand before him, as light as a snowflake's death. A vision I chase, a shadow of might, Where his arms won’t falter, and his touch feels right.

I ache to shed the weight that drowns my form, To vanish beneath the fabric, where shame is born. When he holds me, I want him to touch only my delicate bones, Not wrestle with flesh that stubbornly grown.

I dream of being like those girls in the blinding light, Small and delicate, pure in their might. In social media’s realm, where their bodies gleam, I long to be dainty, to live this frail dream.

Yet here I am, wrapped in these layers too vast, Each garment a shroud, a reminder of my past. “I’m tired of being the ‘fat friend,’” I wail, Each sneer, each glance, a dagger that prevails.

In the mirror, I see a grotesque reflection, A body in torment, devoid of affection. I wish to be “dainty and feminine,” so refined, To escape this form that haunts my mind.

“Maybe if I were prettier, people would stay,” My heart is a prison where hope fades away. “If I were slimmer, would love come my way?” But the reflection sneers, a mockery of day.

I’m worn from hiding beneath fabrics too wide, From concealing my shame, my sorrow, my pride. “Exhausted from not being approached,” my spirit is torn, Of clothes that don’t fit, of dreams left forlorn.

My mother’s whispers cut deep, a relentless ache, “Too big for those shirts,” each word a stake. Each of her words penetrating my frail heart, god why does she have to make all of this so hard? Each layer I wear is a shroud of despair, A veil of self-loathing, heavy as air.

“Aren't you too big for those shirts?” they hiss, As if my worth can be quantified by this. Despite my attempts to blend into the grey, I’m lost in a storm where self-worth fades away.

Body dysmorphia constantly torments me, a phantom of dread, Twisting my shape, and filling my head. I see a stranger in the mirror, a cruel, empty guise, A distorted reflection, that shatters inside.

I hate the way I look, the flesh that confines me, An endless spiral of insecurity that binds me. Each glance in the mirror is a battle, a scar, a reminder of everything I could never be, A reflection of anguish, a glimpse from afar. Why did it need to be me?

“Maybe if I was prettier, people would stay,” A thought that cuts deep, leading hope astray. In this relentless pursuit of a body so thin, I lose myself in a quest that leaves me dim.

I need to do better, but my resolve is frail, Trapped in a cycle where joy is a tale. Beneath these layers of agony and despair, there’s a heart breaking, gasping for air.

In the cold, unfeeling glow of your screen, I disintegrate,

Lost in a parade of faces, where beauty’s cruelly innate.

Their figures, ethereal wisps, like whispers of the dawn,

While I, a heavy shadow, struggle and feel withdrawn.

Their hair, a cascade of spun gold, flowing like molten light,

While mine, a tangled abyss, swallowed by the endless night.

Their skin, a flawless canvas, untouched by time or pain,

While mine is a patchwork of scars, etched by life’s harsh strain.

They display their inked art, stories written in vibrant hues,

While my own skin hides the remnants of battles I didn’t choose.

Their tattoos speak of freedom, each line a tale of grace,

While I cover my own wounds, shrouded in disgrace.

You follow their lives with fervor, each one more perfect than the last,

While I linger in the periphery, a ghost from a distant past.

Your followers rise like a flood, their beauty a constant beam,

And I, caught in the riptide, drown in a fading dream.

Each swipe on your screen is a dagger to my hollow soul,

As I measure my worth against these images so whole.

I count every calorie, each bite is a penance paid,

Trying to sculpt my existence, to fit into the mold displayed.

Anorexia’s grip tightens, a merciless, invisible chain,

Each calorie a crime, each hunger pang a piercing pain.

My reflection shows a gaunt shell, frail and withered, hollow-eyed,

A mere echo of my former self, a life stripped and denied.

I am confined by form-fitting clothes, a prison of my own making,

Their sizes mock my struggle, my self-worth slowly breaking.

I squeeze into garments, hoping to erase the stark divide,

But with each squeeze, I feel more like a fragment, more denied.

“Maybe if I shrink enough,” I whisper in the night’s cold embrace,

“You’ll finally notice me, my figure will find its place.”

Yet even as I lose weight, my spirit becomes more thin,

The mirror’s harsh judgment shows the turmoil deep within.

Thirty pounds lighter, but I am a mere shadow of my former self,

A fragile wisp in the reflection, a life left on the shelf.

“Look at me,” I plead silently, tightening my grip on this gaunt frame,

Hoping that somehow, my suffering might end this cruel game.

The fear of you leaving, a specter haunting every breath,

A constant torment, a lingering, undying death.

I strive to fit into the ideal, to blend with the flawless dream,

But each size, each comparison, makes me feel more obscene.

“Why am I not enough?” I cry in the dead of night,

As I stare at my reflection, a figure devoid of light.

My waistline grows slimmer, my heart grows colder still,

In the pursuit of your approval, I lose my will.

Each day I battle this endless sorrow, this unyielding, crushing despair yearning for your touch, for a love that seems so rare.

But in the mirror’s unfeeling gaze, I see only my demise,

An endless cycle of anguish, as my heart slowly dies.

So I am left in this void, a figure unseen and broken,

Longing for a touch of love, for words that remain unspoken.

In the cruel theater of my own making, I am forever confined,