You see the world through glassy eyes
Your stare as dull as rusted nails
Hair once thick and sleek has turned
Into a lank, lifeless mass
Of brown and auburn, tangled together
Like barbed wire on prison fencing.
Your skin has turned pale and wan
It's rosy colour lost beneath the pale
grey pallour you have taken on.
Your ribs are clear through your papery skin
Sharp and jagged, about to pierce through
The thin membrane like white daggers.
The doctor says you're sick, says its
Depression, that these pills will heal you.
But they don't work.
Because it's not a physical ailment that besets you.
You're sick because you're