Ana

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Ana

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I cannot be happy like this,
I literally cannot live like this,
I’ll die.
Why? And for what?


My days are full of numbers,
Labels and counting,
Always counting.
It’s a day of measuring, timing,
Frustration, doubt, and anxiety.

Its a day of covering up my collarbones
That are sticking out too much,
Or my legs and arms,
That have stretch so thin.

Its a day of conflicting thoughts,
Of whether I should have less or more,
Wondering if my family would notice,
Something missing on my plate.

Its a day of always moving,
Pacing, standing,
Playing with my hands, bouncing my leg,
Stretching my weakening and sore muscles.

Its a day of avoiding people,
Wondering if they see of miserable I have become,
How tired I now feel,
Do they see a ghost of the girl I was?

Why? And for what? I ask myself.
The answer is not nothing,
The answer is Miss. Ana,
Because I may be a ghost,
But I still can be haunted.

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