Society says the point of “getting better” is to be loved. By someone; by something. 

There was a time when I believed 

that flowers

were growing up and down my ribcage and that

perhaps,

(if I was thin enough)

the flowers would protrude 

through my skin and make me

Beautiful.

The bags 

under my eyes were the same shade

purple as the bruises that were

constantly showing up 

on my skin.

Decomposed planets had found a home

on my milky way limbs

but I was not filled with stardust or outer space

I was filled with life

and it was spilling all over the floor

perfectly in sync 

with the dropping number 

on the scale.

There was a time when

my wrists were as red as my blood shot eyes

and my skin was as dry as the 

summers I spent hidden from questions.

I guess all it took was fake smiles and baggy clothes

to hide the torment 

inside

because the closest anyone ever came

to asking if I was okay 

was someone exclaiming

in front of the whole fucking class

“You look tired!”

As if any of us were running 

on a decent amount

of sleep. 

Perfection was expected 

and my grades were only going up.

But one day I opened a new text book

and as the spine cracked

I was afraid it was my own.

There was a time when I was attached

to so many IVs

That I believed perhaps the medicine being

pumped inside my blue veins

was a sign that I was the illness

that needed a cure. 

I had grown up so afraid of monsters,

I had not realized that I

was the skeleton

in my own closet.