Bruised Bones

A thin silhouette made of willow,
Standing tall,
Without arch to the bones of her back.
Only a sliver of the moon,
Half a person,
Who wants to be made of bones.
Such beauty
But such fear,
Promising it won’t go too far.
But the flesh seems thicker
In her head,
And she pinches at it all,
Leaving room for nothing but bruises.





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