Jane Doe is dying to be thin
look at her frail bones and her paper skin
she’s glued to the scale and counts
the nonexisting calories in the water
she’s barely functioning; food
consumes her mind, but it is the enemy.
The lower she weighs, the happier
she feels inside; she’s knocking
on death’s door with a loud bang.
I’m reading this, and applauding both the poem and the sentiment…while I’m dieting. Irony?
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Lol, things are like that sometimes and it’s ok
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