Look at her scars, they are not mine.
Wrists smell of blood, and of perfume and wine.
It stings me to think how one’s eyes get so cold,
Wrinkles her brow, makes her look far too old.
Watch as her friends try to help but they pry,
So she pushes them out just to make herself cry.
Tosses her pizza, her soup down the drain,
The thought of one bite she believes is her bane.
This girl is so lonely, sleeping all day,
I wish I could tell her she’s wasting away!
That things will get better, as everyone said,
That the tear spots won’t stain on the side of her bed.
There will be a day that she’ll sleep without wails,
That some day her cheeks will not look quite so pale.
When her limbs feel so weak, mind too sick to go on,
I wish she would know that it soon will be gone.
That she will find someone who wants her to eat,
Who won’t be repulsed when they go to the beach.
That one day the panic, the worry and fear,
He will talk over, only his voice she'll hear.
The scars and the tears and the ribs poking out,
I couldn’t be that, I mean, look at me now!
Because now my mind is so wonderfully free,
I just can’t believe that that girl once was me.
The Young Writers Project provides VPR's audience another avenue to hear and read selections from Vermont's young writers. The project is a collaboration organized by Geoff Gevalt at the Young Writers Project. The thoughts and ideas expressed here are the writers' own and do not necessarily reflect those of Vermont Public Radio.
