Withered walk that betrays a tale,
Stumbled forward, fallen back.
Every step now smaller than the last,
Under this carried cross unfair.

See the millstone grind its weight
Upon shoulders worn and frail.
No peace, just pain;
A broken boy behind that smile.

Let him pass on fragile ground,
Ever on toward his breaking point.
Watch that weight he carried far
Come welcome crashing down.

Tom Lefort - August 2025.

I look in the mirror:
my ribs shape my frame,
like lines that never go away.
They cage my heart,
turn it small.

A week sick.
*****.
Smell of decaying flesh.
No food for a week.
Only the necessary water to live.
I couldn’t breathe.

Now it has sculpted my frame,
made it fragile and small.
I put a shirt on;
hide it, push it away.

The measurements will never be right
The numbers on the scale will never be small enough
The clothes are always too big or too tight

Eating anything is eating too much
Excuses like I already ate and such
Until I'm pretty there is something more important to feed

They won't like me unless I run
Mile after mile it is never enough
Try to convince myself that it's fun
To push my limits even if it's tough

I never look right
Nothing is flattering
I'm not going to fight
That my hope is shattering

I got thinner and they started to talk
The compliments came
They don't know the road I had to walk
I have no one to blame

I wanted to starve
Like it wouldn't do me harm
They dont notice when I skip meals
Until I show the pain on my arm

I need friends not food
Not thinking about it is key
I just cant change my mood

They know what's going on
But they will never know how deep
The knife goes when I see something wrong
Then again depression will start to seep

Every time I eat I feel like I fail
After there is always a blood trail
I won't eat until I’m frail
I really do despise The Scale

guilt and shame
eating to blame
lack of control
lack of tame
the food comes in
the fat puffs out
if only cold turkey
didn’t sound so good right now

weight.
that’s all I feel now.

the weight of silence.
absence.  
thoughts like boots
stuck in mud up to my knees.

thirteen thousand nights
pounding out of my chest like a riot mob
choking on my life
and staring down twenty thousand more.
****.

the searing void
of an ancient sugared kiss
sends tears down my face
like tiny iron weights—
a silent guillotine.
you’re so far away now.
or maybe I am.

dusting off dreams
like they’re old pictures
and setting them back on the shelf
in this violet desert.
mirage or memory?
who knows.

I’ve become a warm corpse
mumbling “no”
to the tired lives that want to ride me
like an old horse
one limp away from being glue.

who is there to tell?
who the hell would listen?
who’d step foot
onto the interstate of my heart
dodging semis
and roadkill potpourri?

doesn’t matter.
the dreams look clean again.
and that’s enough
to keep the lights on in the cell
for another thousand nights.

so keep that duster handy.
go back to sleep.

these nights are hungry.
and they’re not going to eat themselves.

I never minded the quiet.
The way the walls never asked for anything,
the way the night didn’t need me to speak.
I could sit with my own silence,
breathe in the stillness,
and call it enough.

Then you showed up.
Not loud, not demanding--just there.
And suddenly, the silence wasn’t peaceful,
it was just empty.

I started waiting for your voice
before I even knew I was listening.
I started looking for you in rooms
I knew you wouldn’t be in.

And now, without you,
the quiet feels heavier.
Like it knows what it's missing.
Like it’s waiting, too.