In her idyllic head, she caves, I swear she's gone mad
She tells the mirror she's not addicted, we all know her history
Idealizing an image of how her shoulders used to fall, delicate but sturdy
Sometimes you'll hear her clamor if you get up early
I watch her legs always dangling over the hot stove
If she doesn't reach out soon, she'll implode
Yet she bears the heat, she likes it even
The smell of burning flesh brings her some sort of reason
Without it, how would she recognize she's still alive?
♥ ♡ ♥ ♡ ♥ ♡ ♥
xoxo SumBlueSunshine
