a letter to E.D
i dream of a life
not built on physical appearance
i wish to desire
something other than an ideal body
i want to pursue
something other than a body
that'll never be mine
because you don't get to own things
when you're dead
the only time
you have your dream body -
the ones decorated with your bones -
is when you take your last breath
a skeleton is only visible
when death is decibel
what's the point of life
if you live to die?
except death is
no longer something over there
but a familiar face you welcome
every time you choose to starve
you choose death
every time you choose to restrict
or resist
why waste life on a body unattainable
by the living?
why spend your time
waiting on a sick enough feeling -
a diagnosis only available to the deceased?
how hollow do you wish
for your heart to be?
to be deprived of love first,
then blood next?
how much longer until
taste no longer dances on your tongue?
no one is going to
claim your body
and give you a medal for perfection
you don't get awarded
for losing your life
you don't get applauded
for choosing to die
why do we seek to
make our bodies
what it's not or
ever meant to be?
why don't we see
that we can't see?
your reflection in the mirror isn't a lie
no,
it's your sight
no,
it's your mind,
convincing you to do everything
to fight your body—
a temple—
a home
for which a heart is needed,
so keep yours beating,
keep on breathing
dry bones can live again.