One Year Back:

Ribs sickly sticking through skin, spine running down my back; 

Sunken craters haunt my face holding in eyes that don't shine anymore. 

I didn't want to talk about it then, and I don't want to talk about it now. 

Anorexia ripped at my wings and my seems and pulled at my very being. 

One Month More:

Huddled over a toilet in a school bathroom stall, rejecting every piece of food taken in;

covering mirrors in my room so I don't have to look at the mess I've made of myself.

Friends are worried, family is worried;

They don't know where I am. Neither do I.

Another Month More (or Maybe Two):

I don't know what recovery looks like. For each person and each step forward;

it's different. A script can't be written for learning to live again.

But each day I feel a little bit better, the sun shines brighter;

I'm still here, and God, I'm glad I am.

Months Go By:

Edges are smoothed out. Bones disappear under he healthy radiant skin.

I'm alive. My body is alive. 

Things are not perfect, and I am not perfect.

But I, and my body, are enough. 

This poem is about: 
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 




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