Prisoner
The touch of your
cold skin and the
feeling of your skeleton
through your ratty t-shirt
startle me. I didn't
expect to have to feel
it before you got
better; I thought
that forcing you to
eat would help you
heal, but it seems
to have only made
you worse… but I
know I am no better.
I am plenty thin and
covered in scars, as
always. Some new, and
some so old they've
faded into my skin,
barely noticeable by those
not looking for them.
I know you have scars,
one who's been through
as much as you have
can't not have scars.
Yours are just hidden;
on the inside.
