There's nothing wrong with me
I am unaccomplished
Too weak to starve
Too sick to eat
She goes through the day
But at night she doesn't feel that way
Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat. Fat.
Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly.
Words swirl in her head
And she can't help but let the tears shed
She hates herself
YOU ARE READING
esprit malade
Poetrya penny for my thoughts? trigger warning: depression, eating disorders, anxiety etc.
