The Enemy Within

The unseen ache, the hollow feeling of being unseen. To loathe each fragment of yourself, a puzzle with no hands to mend it. Like shattered glass filled to the brim, spilling, cracking, never whole. Distraction is a bandage too thin, but the wound waits, watching. Sometimes, I wonder if I was better off staying, where thinness was a cruel kind of prize. Mental health aside, at least I’d be desired, a shadow worth glancing at. Always the one overlooked, a whisper lost beneath perfection. Reaching for something just beyond my grasp, a dream dissolving like mist. They see laziness, neglect, a choice, never the war beneath my skin. They will never understand that the battle I face is with The Enemy Within. It lurks in mirrors, in empty plates, in numbers that shrink but never satisfy. A voice laced with poison, yet familiar, pulling me deeper, demanding more. It tells me hunger is power, that fragility is beauty, that suffering is the price of being seen. I listen, I fight, I fall— but still, I rise. Will I ever break free? Or am I destined to dance on the edge of control and collapse, forever caught between ruin and release? Yet, somewhere in the silence, a whisper of hope lingers— soft, fragile, but real. Perhaps, one day, I will hear it clearly. Perhaps, one day, I will listen.