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.