Mirrors don't lie

I'm an oxymoron,
a hideous hybrid of fat and thin.
How can I look like such a glutton,
if bones are visible through my skin?

How can my ribcage struggle
to escape it's prison and bloom,
when underneath it a vast expanse
of fat takes up so much room?

How can my spine jut out
like a vast jagged mountain range,
if underneath lie these horrible legs,
bulbous and bloated, swollen and strange?

How can my collarbones stand out
like a plateau,
when atop it lies a head with cheeks
like boils ready to burst?

My body is an oxymoron,
reflected in this silver demon's eye.
I know this is the truth,
because mirrors don't lie.