"You're too skinny",
says my love
just as the dawn
breaks through
the window shades.
The seconds
turn into sobs.
With every tear
another bone
protrudes.
All:
cheekbones,
hipbones
and ribs.
My rings
slip off my fingers,
jeans slide down,
the numbers
on the scale
decrease;
these moments,
a triumph.
There's no
stopping her,
no turning away.
She's taken over;
demanding:
SMALLER THAN SMALL.
I answer with:
obsession,
body checking;
an overpowering
need
to be weightless.
I close the door
on him
and the silly ideas
of getting well.
Turning to her,
we hold fragile hands;
I whisper,
"Together, till the end."
All my habits are personified. Nervosa is a close, long-standing friend of mine.