the skin at her elbows was so thin
i thought it might split
the pressure from her insides all at once too much
for the flesh her body forgot to build.
her thighs and forearms
are shaped like the bones they hold.
the amount of wrong toned concealer
blotched like drying acrylic
across her cheeks –
but the green-hued bruises on her throat
dappled across the lump resting
between collarbones. It is hard to distinguish
marks by mouths from fingers.
her hair is twisted, tucked, fluffed
white at the roots, hairspray held too close.
I wonder if it has already begun to fall out –
each strand jumping like the crew
of a burning ship.