This is an older poem I had written when I was struggling, sort of as a letter, sort of not. It was something of a definition- of what, I'm still not completely sure. I wasn't really sure if I should have added the last line or not, please let me know!

A contraption, your stomach,

Twining, twisting, pulling, tuning, turning,

But you can’t quite reach it.

It gnaws away at you, ‘till you can’t quite tell who and what you once were.

You feed it; satisfy it until it tucks that horrid thing away once more.

Then you hate yourself, for giving in, for being weak.

You look at yourself in the mirror and see a mangled reflection,

Imperfect and ugly.

But when your sister looks at you,

(and she does)

She sees the girl she’d once looked up to, back when she was proud, loud,

And beautiful.

Back when she wasn’t a skinny stick of a thing, thin and fragile.

Something to be handled carefully, like a treasured china figurine,

Perched on a shelf, dusty and forgotten, a once grand figure, now just a shell.

Not an empty shell , though, a shell filled with swirling emotions,

Punching and kicking, and biting and spitting,

And it always comes back to that one thing, that tears you apart,

A contraption, your stomach,

Hungry for something you can’t feed it.

And you go to sleep…

(you don't wake)

The End

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