The speaker looks at their own reflection and feels like a stranger is looking back. It starts in a small, ordinary moment: a face caught in a bowl of soup, a carpet that traps them in their own head. From there the image turns frightening. The reflection's eyes grow bigger, redder, hungrier, and its stare seems to peel the speaker's heart apart and feed on their sadness.
Underneath the horror is a plain wish: to be loved even when they can't stand, or even know, the face they see. The line about a skirt being solid yet transparent suggests a feeling of being exposed no matter what they wear or how they present themselves. The speaker says the peeling doesn't hurt and admits to being addicted to love, which makes the pain feel strangely chosen. The ending shrugs it off with a question, "what does it matter?", but it sounds more numb than carefree. The mood is uneasy, raw, and quietly desperate.