still pictures in poetry

Thin, her face lost its substance,
thin, her breasts lost their glory,
thin, her form lost its stories.

We are not our bodies
I am not just my body
we are not just our bodies
but our bodies tell our stories
they don’t tell all of our stories
but they tell some of our stories
they tell stories that are a real
portion of what makes us who we are.

Our bodies are not all of the story
but they are real stories none the less
our bodies are a portion of our stories
and thin?
All of those stories, erased
at least all of those stories hidden
at least all of those stories
at best tucked away for some later accounting
thin, she was no longer herself.

I don’t think she changed for her health
I don’t think she changed for herself
I think she changed to try and change her story
lost her glory instead
it’s all still in there
inside of her head
but I guess she just keeps running.