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[Text and Image Description]
(All text written in all caps. Top left: A drawing of a figure from the waist up with no distinguishable features. It has an exaggerated hole in the head and stomach.)
It’s honestly contrived and cliche at this point to make art about not feeling whole.
(Cut into the previous image, with white text and a drawing of an eye.)
But it’s honestly how I feel.
(Top right: Text above a drawing of long, low detail legs and feet, with another similarly nondescript person about the height of an ankle running to keep up with the legs.)
It’s easy for me to imagine that everyone else in the world is complete, and I’m not.
(With an arrow pointing to the tiny person.)
(Or- maybe it’s that everyone else is big and I’m so small.)
(Center: Black text on a white background in the center of a huge black cutout. Beneath the text is a semi-realistic drawing of a face, just the nose, mouth and chin, and to the right are some emoji like expressions of distress.)
Or! Maybe I’m a shadow or a mirror, a fake imitating the genuine.
(Below center: White text on a black cutout, underlined.)
(Well, in a way that’s contrived, too, yeah?)
(Bottom center: A bunch of eyes pointing at a semi-relistic nude self portrait of a fat person with boobs and shoulder length hair wearing only glasses. An arrow points to the person that says, "Me.")
What am I then? (Other than painfully myself?)
(The poem is signed @SBY)