Wrong

You wake up one morning and the shadow is small, sitting at your shoulder, wispering terrible words in your ear but you ignore it.

For years you ignore it until it becomes the person who doesn’t know when to leave after the party is over, always beside you, bothering you, never helping, always in the middle, the shadow growing every time you look at it.

Until it’s words are too loud to not listen and you pick up the blade.

And over the years you have learned to ignored until is to loud to ignore, until is towering over you again, then you lean into it once more.

And you know what is wrong, you know how to make it go away but no one is willing to help, there is waiting and excuses but never real help.

And you look at yourself in the mirror every day while the shadow, now bigger than you, holds on your shoulders and whispers everything you should look like and you don’t, everything that is missing, everything that should not be there but is, points all your flaws and you’re fucking tired of it, so you pick up the blade and it smiles while you bleed.

You almost won me over, I was ready to be 6 feet down under, I didn’t know why I was wrong but I do now and you have a name.

Dysphoria is such a bitch.

I wake up every morning and the reflection laughs at me and the image of who I should be cries in my head and the shadow curls it’s tendrils around my neck until I suffocate.

And everything I do reminds me of how wrong I look, how wrong I feel.

And I pick up the blade.