Cracks
I eat to repair,
to fill,
to seal the cracks that
have spread across my tattered soul.
I eat to make myself feel whole.
I eat, and I begin to feel
complete.
But then the mirror beckons,
calls me to its cold stare,
and I see how ugly I am,
and the cracks begin to spread again.
Why does feeling alive make me so ugly?
I feel myself wither and fade,
And now I’m empty again,
The cracks tearing me up even more.
And the circle starts over again.
Forever.