Linda Welsh

Shrink

Sophia Rose Walker

The object in the mirror is farther than it appears. Destructive patterns dressed as self-improvement crept into the subconscious and convinced you it was your idea to desecrate your home in exchange for love and delayed gratification when the time comes to be smaller. Beauty is the highest accolade In which you will chase, (and chase), until weakness swaddles your limbs with every step, set on a path of emaciation with no remembrance of initial intention. Spoon-fed beliefs by the same figure who would then tell you to stop eating altogether. Cultivating a forest created for destruction, skin as arid as the land you undermined. The figure lights a match and drops it and Under spoiled skin fakes astonishment of how swiftly the flames consumed you. Bones feeble and chilled nothing left but steam and smoke reduced not to an image, but an idea.

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