Inside the back of my head,
inside there is a voice.
I feel like I'm dead,
and there's not even a spark of Joyce.
I'm so weak and fragile,
hungry and pale.
I've been starving for awhile,
hoping to eventually live a fairy tale.
I'm turning into skin and bones,
as I continue losing weight.
You can start to see my cheekbones,
but what doesn't change is my self-image hate.
I have a thinspiration,
mine is personal.
I give it such admiration,
that it makes me very emotional.
On the rare times that I eat,
I start to feel extremely guilty.
I mentally get beat,
with every bit of cruelty.
Every time I look into the wretched mirror,
all I see is loads of fat.
I know I'm skinnier with each look in the mirror,
but I'm never skinny enough.
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