I’m not hungry, I already ate she says.
I watch her; the game called death is what she plays.
I’m with her when she looks into the mirror time after time.
Repeating in her head she doesn’t look fine.
Beside her at night when she prays,
She wants to be beautiful someday.
Wasting herself away to nothing,
She ignores the words, “you should eat something”.
I hear her cries of desperation.
She fails again, no inspiration.
Deathly beautiful is what she is.
“Beautiful” is what she seems to miss.
No, she can’t do it by herself.
Needs someone to take her off the shelf.
To take her hand and tell her it will be alright.
That you’re not giving up until she wins the fight.
I am the one to take his hand.
Head held high, I’m ready to stand.
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THIS was a shock, but maybe not. Both at the same time. This IS one of the best of the writing I have seen you do. Very powerful words and clever writing about either the personal experience yourself, as the one in the mirror, or seeing it haunt someone else.
ReplyDeleteWhat surprised me was the mention of a "HIM" at the conclusion. Shall that remain a secret?
You knocked me on my arse with this one...it seems all too familiar in so many ladies that I know.
♥
-J-
Perhaps it shall..
ReplyDeleteThis one does go into personal experience, and I am glad you liked it
This was me (in a dude form), two years ago (I was a wrestler). I'm not sure how to react to this, seeing as I don't know you, but it was a well done poem, and I know where you're coming from, just from a different junction.
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