Until It's Too Late

There’s no glamour in it.

No flashing lights

lighting up the reflection in the tears

of her eyes.

Just purple circles

from sleepless nights

and fights

with her body.

There’s no glamour in her hair.

Wet on the end

from toilet water when

she couldn’t keep the food down.
Thinking if she just stops eating

that at least death will be her friend

and then she can’t offend

a standard.

There’s no comfort

at the wake

when her mom sees

how many people attend.

All she knows

is the ache

in her chest wondering why death had to take

her baby so soon.

So stop this ideation

of a disease you know

nothing real about.

Because the fact is,

2 out of 3 of us

never try to get help even though

we feel our life begin to slow,

but we won’t let it show.

This poem is about: 
Our world

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