he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)

his body was so very
     a l i v e
his heart beat in
   o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
     d e a d .

when did fine come to mean depressed, anxious, scared, suicidal, desperate, self-conscious?
when did we start to lie?

"I'm fine," she says, as her stomach gnaws away at her insides, growling for food

"I'm fine," he says, as he pulls the sleeves of his sweater down over his blood-stained wrists

"I'm fine," she says, after purging all of her dinner

"I'm fine," he says, when the anxiety gets so bad that he can't breathe right

"I'm fine," they say, as they write their last goodbye,
one last lie.

your bones,

they protrude

at awkward angles,

where the veins meet your muscles.



the thick grey lines,

cast on your ivory skin,

like waves on the violent ocean surface,

the shadows from your bones.



from your collar bones,

to your ribcage,

to your hips,

to your thighs,

and to your ankles.



the lack in the amount of flesh,

the lack in the amount of muscle mass.



to me they were perfect.



your bones,

they were just

beautiful.

I emptied myself to make room for more beauty
More loveliness and grace
More feminine glow and fragile perfection
And tight skin over protruding bones
But I lost all my kindness
And my compassion
I emptied my sympathy for others
And now I'm full of rosy allure but not much else.