And she already knows the words that'll be on her gravestone,
BECAUSE SHE ALREADY KNOWS HOW SHE'S GOING TO DIE.


"Sticks and stones will break her bones,
and names will make her starve to death."
Anorexia isn't a fashion statement.
It's a deathwish.
And her rotting corpse lies there like a slave to a never ending cycle.
The words play over and over in her head.
"You will never be good enough."
And she watches other helpless girls fall into the trap,
the place she called her home.
She was comfortable there.
She could borrow a bit of esteem there.
Those girls, some as young as she felt.
They feel so insignificant and unlovable.
And they wait in a line that goes nowhere,
And they pray for a quick and easy killing.
Slaughtered by the game.
The one people joke about.
The one people DIE FROM.
And she watches them shrink,
and grow deathly disproportioned.
And she cries and cries that she can't do a thing.
The words taunt them,
tell the little girls what "pretty" really is
to the world, the culture.
"You will never be good enough."
Their minds are filthy with the lies they tell themselves.
She lies there on the floor, choking on her heart.
Life fades to nothing,
and the words play over and over in her head.
"You will never be good enough."
The world and the girls pick a new goal which they aspire.
And her dying breath spills like the blood on her arms,
"I'll never be good enough."