Starved

Her fragile frame was like handwritten poetry

But not the comfortable kind

Not the sort that inspired or rhymed

It was too frail for melody

It was too dark for hope or peace of mind

Sentences were broken as she weakened

No, these words were never kind

She smiled for the masses

But cried beneath the mask she’d become

No matter how she starved, it was never enough

Neither a tiny waist nor tiny wrists

Could keep her from coming undone

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