She is skin stretched over bones, and her legs buckle beneath her warped frame like twigs holding up mountains.

She is flesh pulled taut over her body, and she is all the love she craves poured in the gap between her thighs.

She is a network of veins across a frail face, and she thinks all the nutrients she needs are less than the liquid spilling from her eyes, but honey, that's not beauty.

He is tissue paper fitted to a skeleton, and he has become nothing, his bones glass, his blood water.

He is a hollow shell, and he bounces around between an empty stomach and the way he sees himself.

He's the faintest of heartbeats, the smallest of meals, the biggest of risks.

They are houses, not homes.

You cannot live in the spaces between their ribs, their shallow breaths will not keep you warm.

Their walls are bowing trying to hold themselves together, foundation long gone.

They are condemned, poisoned by reflections, addictions confined to bathrooms filled with knobby knees and dead eyes.

Take apart their hollow bones, and put them in museums.

Hold them high enough to see their worth, make them feel alive again, they belong on this Earth.