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Pretty Little Bones MAG
Today I worried
Because these pretty little bones weighed too much.
It ate at my brain,
This disease, and I couldn’t think anymore.
I saw three numbers, but I wished for two,
And then maybe one,
And hopefully someday the one I want:
Zero.
Gone, absent, nonexistent.
Which I know can’t be true.
Because these pretty little bones alone
Weigh seventy-three pounds
Seventy-three pounds away from what I want to be.
I see the thick blanket of skin covering those around me,
And the one thin thread holding all of me in.
I see the soft, down warmth:
Comfort.
I am sheet metal in comparison.
Still, I need more …
Less, really.
And I always will.
Because these pretty little bones weigh
Just seventy-three pounds.
I got close once,
Dangerously and excruciatingly close,
That was ecstasy, until they brought me back
And this skeleton was stuffed until she wasn’t a skeleton anymore.
I’ll go back someday,
One final time,
Push these pretty little bones as close to my surface
As I possibly can.
It takes me over
And I can’t think anymore.
those filthy numbers,
they control me.
It is in me now.
It has become me.
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This article has 5 comments.
Wow, I can't say as I have ever read a poem about Anorexia. But I think this is one.
Beautifully written about a dangerous subject, I can only hope that this isn't how you truly feel.
Thank you for writing this, there probably are people who feel exactly like that, wanting to become nothing but bones, and then, nothing but nothing.
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