You have a fetish with your bones.
You don’t hide it very well.
When you think no one’s looking;
Living inside your own personal hell.
I see you stroke your ribcage
And admire those collarbones.
The mirror is your best friend;
Days made by how many stones.
I know you must be sweating
Under all those layers of clothes.
I hear your stomach talk to you
While you pretend no one’s home.
Take a tip from a pro.
You can’t hide it forever.
Sooner or later they’ll know.
When health isn’t your main concern
And you want to be buried in a stick;
When your goal in life is to be the smallest
And you have that competitive itch.
When ingesting causes panic attacks
And you hurt anyone who tries
To keep you alive.
You’ve got the reason.
You need to fly.
Don’t be surprised when they tell.
After all, you share your hell.