At the end of the day, we’re all the same.
Stuck in our heads.
In our thoughts.
Our brains tell us we’re not good enough.
Not skinny enough.
Not pretty enough.
Because our ribs aren’t sticking out of our chests,
We’re called fat.
Because we don’t eat everything in the house
And stick our fingers down our throats, we’re called cowards.
But I don’t want to live in a world where bones equal beautiful,
And scales are worshipped like Gods.
YOU ARE READING
suicidio
PoetryTRIGGER WARNING!!! A poetic take on teen suicide, depression and eating disorders, written by a disordered kid.
