Its breath is fog, its tongue is hate. my quiet fate - the mirror waits

A masquerade of curves and flaw, a body spat from mirrors maw

You crown me in worship and lust, but behind the veneer lingers hunger in the dust. They do not see the cost, the years of famine, the blood I’ve lost

Water runs down sculpted skin, The teasing prison I live in. You would drink, you would kneel, Starve for the heat I conceal. But in the glass a jester lies, mocking hips, carving thighs. It smirks and surely knows me well, its gospel horror, mine is hell.

Do I trust your eyes? Or trust my tone? Put trust in the mirror which swallows me whole? Doubt formed a cage of what once was my home.

A saint in flesh, in spirit a ghost. Adored in your gaze, condemned in my own.

While you bathe in the sweet, my will remains stone.

While you gorge on the feast

I gnaw through my bones.