I'm not making this up

By , bound brook, NJ
Frustration burns fiercely in the pit of the stomach
As lips struggle to form words that relay the hardships of the past

Images flash into the brain, projecting bluish skin pulled tightly over jagged hip bones and poorly chiseled ribs about to rip through barely existent flesh
Faded black roads bouncing as sticks pound asphalt and ignite

All vision slowly blurring
Turning to gray
Turning to black

A video of the bag of bones collapsing into a pile of dry, fallen leaves just as alive as she
A baggy, size small t-shirt draped over the skeleton
Covering a spine that can be felt through the stomach
Behind shut eyelids are bloodshot eyes plagued by exhaustion nearly rolling out of their sockets
A heart as empty as the stomach beats weakly behind those poorly chiseled ribs that are about to rip through the bluish skin
The soul is grotesquely contorted from unbearable depression expressed in the form of starvation

Snapshots show salty tears carving paths down the face
And salty tears mercilessly carving the body
They document worthlessness chipping a body away
And sadness sucking up two years of life

They tell stories of hopelessness that bounces the faded black road, pounding bones on asphalt, igniting emaciated legs
A story of hopelessness pulling skin tightly over hip bones
A story of desperation pushing ribs through pathetic amounts of flesh

And how the unforgettable events taunt a mind
As that mind recalls unfrogettable sadness they will never even be acquainted with
And all the unforgettable days they say didn't happen

That mind remembers a story that spanned an unforgettable two years
When a healthy human being was so sad
That they willingly turned themself into a zombie

But althought the story has reached its climax
Still frustration burns on inside the stomach
As mere children proclaim every second of the two difficult years imaginary





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