Every time I walk you can hear every pop and crack of my bones.
The sound deafening my surroundings.
My knees are weak.
And so are my arms.
I look at all the models on those magazines.
Wishing I was them.
I can remember those kids smart remarks about my body.
I felt alone.So it's just me and my bag of bones.
-𝓥
YOU ARE READING
𝙎𝙆𝙄𝙉 𝙊𝙁 𝙋𝙊𝙍𝘾𝙀𝙇𝘼𝙄𝙉.
Poetry𝘈𝘴 𝘪𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘯.❀ ©-darkacadamia