She smells like rain on a warm summers day and she tastes like blackberries freshly picked off the bush.
When she laughs, it makes the humming birds sound like nails on a chalkboard and i know how cliche this all sounds but she walks like an angel and i cant help but notice her defined collarbones
She makes me want to write about butterfly's and flowers instead of cut wrists and veins.
I tell her I love her. She replies with a kiss never confessing her love but I say it anyways because her smile creates this feeling in me I haven't felt since childhood and she needs to know she is loved. when I feel her bones on my hips I cringe she's so thin.
This disorder, it's gotten hold of her. Bruised knuckles-never confessing the reason she shakes
Anorexia and bulimia-I know this disease too well. It's chronic, it's an illness, it's a suicide attempt. She doesn't know it's killing her-she refuses to accept that she has it. But at night- I can barley see a lump when she's underneath the covers.
When she dies,  her coffin will be so light people will check to make sure there's a body in it.
Her bones are sharp-like scissors. And I wonder, does she use them to cut? Do they tear her skin open? Is her elbow used to fresh air?
I hold her hands. They're so cold. How can a person live like this? If I could, I would force her to eat.
She hates the mirror. If I could, I would make her see a beautiful person looking back.