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Dec 2012
One day she'll leave everything;
the color-changing leaves,
the fallen snow she played in on
gray winter days,
the sun in her eyes as she tried to block it
with a thin white arm.
The mirrors will be gone,
no longer able to torment her with
her waistline, her ribs, her hipbones;
she won't feel hungry anymore,
only light-headed and full of air,
too afraid to say she's starving.
She'll walk away from
her mother, frail with worry;
her father, unable to speak his;
her best friend, always there with her
on the edge of it all.
And there he is,
holding her against his sweatshirt,
thinking it'll warm the cold inside her.
He doesn't know she's not there;
he's only holding her shell,
now hollow and empty
like her stomach.
Dani Huffman
Written by
Dani Huffman
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