July 19, 2017
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I got sick in the 7th grade

I grew thin.
My breath
And dark bags
Under my eyes.

I counted calories up
And counted down
On the scale.

“You look so pretty,”
everyone said,
with their sickly-sweet

I felt rotten
And so did my breath,
But on the outside
I was pretty
And my breath smelled like fruit.

I felt my heart in my ribs
Saw my hip bones while I walked.

I was a walking corpse
With the sickly-sweet smell
Of a dying girl.

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