White hot stars gleefully dance across the open night sky
Beckoning. Calling. "Come outside!" "Come play!"
Red puffy, stinging eyes stare back. Too tired to keep up their lie
Too tired from exhausting all their energy on just making it through one more day
In another place in a different country speaking another language, A far too young, gaunt, practically weightless, figure.
They turn to see those same glimmering, carefree, stars
They begin to think of the food they ate, they're urged to make themselves sicker
It's not something fixed with magic. Nor is it fixed by saying that what is happening is wrong and we shouldn't do it. Thanks, but you can keep your useless seminars.
A plate politely but adamantly pushed away...
...For the tenth night in a row.
Onlookers seated around the table only give it a moment's thought. But they don't need the full story, do they?
Once the last person looks away the thinning figure glances out to the twinkling lights in the sky, wishing they could stop this infinite cycle. To finally let go.
But You Can't
You can only swim until you drown or find land to supplant
YOU ARE READING
The Poetry of Amateurs
PoetryJust some amateur poetry I wrote. There are different forms/structures for each one. I wrote this for a class assignment (Warning: Mention of Depression and Eating Disorders in one piece)
