Brittle skin strokes the dried up burnt residue of the chicken Mamma had cooked that night
The food turns to ash and her knees smack the floor
Her eyes come into contact with the tear that has fallen on the tile
Her lungs pulse for air, but they are blocked by nothing
Her heart takes a rest as her body slows down
The gauze unravel themselves
Reveling her open wounds and reveling all the secrets
The tile is cold but she doesn’t seem to hesitate or move
Her ribcage becomes more defined as the number on the scale drops
But the mirror will always tell her different