You won't find them on my arms. . .
Nor will they appear on my legs.
My body, a canvas, and my blood the paint.
This way of torture is hidden out of sight,
No dresses will be worn,
No cuts in sight.
It digs into my skin,
Dragging its broken promise with the relief of stress.
It is not caused by a knife.
No razor can be seen, nor is it brandished at night.
Do you know where my battle lies?
It lies out of sight.
My brain a constant storm,
Surging towards the light,
Seems to flicker warmth,
In the darkness of my fight.
My mirror shows the pale, round lines.
The shadows dance and cast circles under my eyes.
My stomach too thin - too fat at times.
I am the monster that lurks at night.
My back, a landscape of forgotten pain and memories,
Stands straight with the burden of knowing life's recipes.