At sixteen, we start to take shape,

solidifying morals, values, goals.

Bodies changing: gaining weight —

full of hormones and birth control.

 

At sixteen, ideals shoved down neck:

skinny, pretty, breast, bum.

Calm surface but inside; a wreck.

Emotional yet, uncomfortably numb.

 

At sixteen, comparison makes you feel huge.

The logical solution? Harm yourself!

Against invasive thoughts, you’ll lose.

Too wrapped up to ask for help.

 

At sixteen, long sleeves are your best friend;

covering this week’s damage.

Wanting this hurt to end

but, Mum – how will she manage?

 

 

At eighteen, plague still on the brain.

Thoughts I’ve had to retrain;

Two things you like about yourself — go.

To oneself, this I owe.

 

At eighteen, forced vomiting now ceased;

tamed the beast, for now, at least.

Section threats, razor blades no more.

Beginning reconstruction post-war.

 

At twenty-two, although still there,

feelings of hatred are all too rare.

Caring for yourself is a process;

once addressed, you’ll see progress.

 

A change of focus in the mirror

will help you see much clearer.

Life is meant to be lived –

it does get better, kids.