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,...
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