healing
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I’ve lost nine people in thirteen months. At a certain point, grief stops feeling like an occasional visitor and starts feeling atmospheric.
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This poem tears apart the illusion that weight gain equals happiness. Beneath a “healthy” body might be something starved, hollow, and quietly decaying—an inner life no one bothers to see. Dark, raw, and unapologetic, it exposes the cost of being visibly fine while starving inside.
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