as the mirror reflects what is standing in front of it,
your body reflects the pain you've been feeling
as you slowly let your skin be destroyed.
the only thing you've eaten in the past four days
is an apple.
95 calories.
you lift your shirt and see your ribcage.
underneath those frail and fragile bones
are patches of raw skin in the shape of countries
that contain sure capitals of your depression.
your cold but sweaty and shaky hands
travel to the rips on your waist.
the fourteen rips and tears on your waist.
they formed there when people started
staring at the forty-seven rips your thighs
and asking if you were okay,
which, by the way,
drives you absolutely insane
because they knew you weren't
but still they laughed in your face and called you weird and said you were just acting and it was all in your head. in your silly, pretty head. the silly, pretty head you wanted dead. the silly, pretty, dead head you felt like ripping every strand of hair from and gouging each eye out from and-

as the mirror reflects what is standing in front of it,
your body reflects the pain you've been feeling
as you slowly let your skin,
and your sanity,
be destroyed.