She Was A World That Couldn't Breathe

to the people who said,
“love yourself,”
like it was as involuntary,
as effortless as 
breathing
and exhaling the insecurity,
this is what 
she has to say:

all of the reflective surfaces
this world has to offer

–every mirror,
every glass table,
every body of still water,
the eyes of those
who she thought were 
judgemental, critical,
tearing away at her
confidence–

they’re mocking you,
cackling at you,
laughing at you,
hysterically.

because as her muscles atrophied,
her skin thinned,
like a string
pulled apart by its ends
and the skeleton was
exposed,
the figure that she
desired,
but was never satisfied by.

her ribs
were like the jail cell
for her heart,
the core that tried
so hard,
so tenaciously,
to burn
when the crust was crumbling
and crying.

her collarbones
were like glaciers
that never melted,
but could break at any moment
any slip,
any fall.
cold
and icy.

the crests of her hip bones
were like sand dunes,
but the sand
was blown
by the wind
only to be forgotten;
a sandstorm
perceived as
grains.

her spine,
the peaks of her
vertebrae
were like island nations
rising to the surface
from the ocean
of dry,
lifeless
skin.

because she was the world
that couldn’t see
itself for what it was:
beautiful.

and just so you know,
she can’t breathe.
she’s never been able to.
and she won’t.
not ever.
ever again.