Beneath the dim and sullen light,

I stand before the glass at night.

A hollow figure stares at me,

A twisted shape I cannot flee.

The lines of flesh, the curve of skin,

The scars that lie so deep within—

They mock me in this spectral frame,

And whisper softly of my shame.

Each glance, a wound that cuts so deep,

A mirror where my demons creep.

They crawl along my fragile mind,

With voices cruel, cold, unkind:

"You are not enough," they sing,

"No beauty here, no grace to bring.

Your flesh too full, your face too plain,

A creature born of silent pain."

I trace the shape of weary eyes,

The ghost of hope beneath them lies.

A thought arises, soft but grim—

Perhaps if I were thin and slim,

If skin were tighter, bones more slight,

The world would see me in new light.

But what is beauty, if not lies,

Wrapped in the flesh where truth denies?

And so I ponder, late and long,

Of bodies broken, bodies wrong.

I wonder if I could be free,

If only I could cease to be—

This form, this cage, this hateful guise,

That holds me from the world's sweet prize.

Perhaps with hunger's bitter sting,

Or creams that promise endless spring,

I might reshape what cannot stay,

And chase this loathsome self away.

But deeper still, the question burns:

What is it that my soul yet yearns?

To bend and break, to twist and mold,

To fit the shape that's bought and sold—

To starve for beauty, ache for grace,

To chase a lie that leaves no trace?

I turn to those who shine so bright,

The faces bathed in glowing light.

Their skin so smooth, their eyes so clear,

No sign of sorrow, doubt, or fear.

But in that light, do they not fall,

Beneath the weight of it all?

Do they not wonder, as I do,

What twisted shapes they must pursue?

For in their gaze, I see a plea—

To be released, to be set free.

The glass reflects a world askew,

Where beauty's fake, and truth is few.

What if it's not my form to blame,

But this false idol's burning flame?

What if the world, with all its grace,

Has twisted beauty's tender face?

And I, though flawed in flesh and bone,

Am not the one who stands alone?

What if this body, scarred and true,

Is not a curse, but something new?

A temple born of endless strife,

A map that tells the tale of life?

And in its folds, and in its lines,

Are written secrets of the divine?

For who can say what beauty is,

What truth may hide beneath the skin?

Perhaps it's not in what we see,

But in the soul, the heart, the we.

The eyes that burn with living fire,

The hands that shape each true desire.

The flesh, though full or frail or worn,

Is but the shell in which we're born.

So I, though broken by the glass,

Will learn to let these shadows pass.

I'll eat with joy, I'll breathe with ease,

No longer bound by false decrees.

For beauty, fleeting as the air,

Is nothing more than what we bear.

And as I turn away from night,

The mirror fading from my sight,

I feel a warmth within me rise,

A truth reflected in my eyes.

It whispers softly, "You are more—

A soul that none can shape or score.

The flesh, it bends, it shifts, it fades,

But you, my love, are not betrayed."

I walk away with steady breath,

And leave behind this fear of death—

The death of worth, the death of grace,

The death of this, my mortal face.

For in the end, what shall remain

Is not the flesh, nor fleeting gain,

But what we love, and what we hold,

The fire within that burns so bold.

And though the world may strive to change,

And beauty's rules may still estrange,

I'll find my worth in what I give,

In how I love, in how I live.

So let the glass reflect in vain,

I'll no longer fear its cold disdain.

For I am more than what they see—

I am enough, and I am free.