When I sit in my room,

I love to watch and look.

Reading my skin from head to toe,

Like words from the pages of a book.

Just looking, however, I don't get to see

What really rests within.

The love in my heart and the wit in my soul

The smirk that results from my sin.

I have the grin, the smile, the smirk

But do I have the humour?

I think I'm developed and oh-so sound

But I quake at every rumour

Fat and muscle hide and empty inside

My brain is void and through.

The only thing that I have left

Is the pretty vision of you.

I am a whole and yet unwhole

Without the thought of us.

Life is worth nothing, and everything too-

But surely not this fuss?