A tall antique mirror rests in front of her 
She touches her face 
Her scars, not to be seen 
Only felt 
She examines her skin 
So pale, lack of food 
Her eyes, swollen, tired 
Her body wilted, when will it fail her 
When will she no longer walk 
No longer speak 
Counting the days 
Wasting the hours 
She waits 
For relief 
She waits for forgivness 
Starving to be beautiful 
Dying to be noticed 

Poetry


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