Shifting Outlines

I wish that I could cut the weight away, and carve a different person from this clay. I look into the glass and hate the sight, a silhouette that never feels quite right. The numbers climb and fall, a cruel design, a constant shift across a jagged line. I hate the rise, I hate the downward trend, a cycle that I wish would finally end. I wish that I could trim each hated space, and sever every piece I can't embrace, To finally hold the confidence I lack, instead of bending underneath the rack. But when I try to step outside the door, the overthinking traps me on the floor. A wave of sickness rises in my chest— the heavy thoughts leave nowhere left to rest.