Somewhere in my sleep
I gobbled down that tiny version of myself;
the one that prayed to keep shrinking,
to exist as silence,
as nothing more than flesh and bone,
a barren ground, to which
everyone was welcome
at the price of any compliment.
She was so weak,
but she was so pretty.
Sometimes, I look in the mirror
and hope I spit her back out
for, I didn’t know the price to pay
for self worth, would be
to feel so ugly
all the goddamn time.
Some days, she cries out.
Often loud enough for me to hear it.
Sometimes, I gulp her down,
as an afterthought,
as a way to prove to her that
I’m not that tiny girl anymore.
But often, I cough fragments of her back up
she’s stuck in my throat, seeking a way out.
She's not an extension of me,
she is me.
I’m trying to learn to hold her,
understand I will always carry her with me,
despite of how weak I may be.
Because today I wasn't weak,
and for now,
that's enough.
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