Yellowed eyes, Bloating belly, Paper-thin skin sagging,
Do you see what is happening to you, Or do you live life through rose-colored glasses?
Linoleum floors, the burn of chemicals at my nose. Green and blue jolly ranchers, Judging glares from nurses, Nobody understanding the internal struggle.
Roaring waves crashing against my stomach, Swirling, spinning, tearing my insides apart. Crawling up my throat until its too sore to swallow.
These are the words I choke down.
These are the things I cannot say.
"She loves you," strangers murmur through closed doors.
"She loved you," they cry, mourning over photographs of a woman I never knew.
The woman I never met.
The woman that died a little bit the day she was in her car crash.
Eighty percent of her life grafted away,
A new future she'd have to be strong for.
That's when poison came into play.
A coping mechanism for a model turned burn victim.
She was a survivor, Her problem lied in always seeing herself as a victim.
Victim to lost beauty, even though she was still beautiful.
Victim to the flames, even though they made her ten times stronger.
Victim to fate that threw her around like ashes in a pyre.
She did not understand that what she viewed as her greatest weakness also made her unbelievable brave.
She drank to forget that pain.
Now she doesn't lay six feet under,
but she was set aflame again,
turned into ash that rides the wind.
Forever twisting through the world,
riding the air in the home she grew up in.
And if there is some place after I hope that she has finally found her happiness.