They say we're the lucky ones and you scoff
But they're right;
We are the lucky ones.

The only hatred we face is from ourselves
Coating our frontal lobes and sticking
Dripping sickly sweet like honey down our throats
Encasing our vocal chords
Rotting us from the inside out.

The only hunger we face is self-inflicted
Fingers itching
Stomachs protesting
Disgust crawling over our skin and burrowing further into our flesh
Taking root
making itself comfortable.

We don't live in war-torn countries
Our scars should be from skinned knees and appendectomies.
Our bodies are littered with something far more sinister;
Shame takes the form of long sleeved shirts in summer.

We are the lucky ones.
We seem unwilling to accept that.