If you cut her open, what would you see?
Are her bones like paper?
Do they fold and cave in like I wish mine did?
Does her heart beat like mine does,
Or did it die when she stopped eating?
Are her lungs full of air?
Does she breath like I do,
Or did they give up when
she forced her boney fingers down her throat?
Is having a thigh gap the true
meaning of life?
Does a flat stomach mean happiness?
Was she happy in the hospital?
With no way out.
Stuck in a place that served as
constant reminder of her toxic head
The devil himself ripping at her flesh,
Telling her to stop eating.
To hollow herself out so she can
truly be empty.
“You need to eat.” they said.
“Stop purging.” they said.
But little do they know it’s not so simple.
When your hatred for yourself runs so deep
That it cuts through every *****, every tissue,
every cell, until there’s nothing left.  
Sometimes I wonder if skinny girls bleed.
How can you look so weak, and have blood
run through your veins?
Does bleeding make you human?
Or is being beautiful more important?