I’ve measured every inch of me like a crime scene left unclean— catalogued the evidence of all the ways I’ve failed to gleam. My ribs protest beneath the weight of mirrors that never forgive, and my skin— a graveyard of touches that never wanted to live. I call my heart a swollen thing, it beats in lopsided protest, too soft for this flesh prison, too loud for quiet unrest. My mouth keeps spilling honesty no one asked to hear; my hands—awkward apologies that never learned repair. Even my shadow hesitates, dragging behind like shame— as if the light itself regrets ever learning my name. So here I stand: a diagram of imperfection, bones like crooked truths, eyes like open wounds— an unattractive anatomy still begging to be loved by something other than reflection.