Morgan Thomas
In the mirrors gaze,
A reflection of whispers, both gentle and bold.
I search for the beauty that others proclaim ,
Yet shadows of my doubt whisper my name .
Skin a canvas, painted with time,
Each mark and each curve, a rhythm, a rhyme.
But the voices around me , they echo and tease,
Claiming perfection is found in the ease.
I scroll through the images, bright and so sleek,
Wondering why my heart feels so weak.
“Is beauty a number?” I ponder and sigh,
As I battle the thoughts that refuse to comply.
Some days I wear confidence like a crown,
But it slips through my fingers, I feel it weigh down.
The scale tells a story, but it’s one I can’t trust,
For the worth of my spirit is more than just dust.