a slight joy permeates me
when the numbers on the scale dip below 100
when i feel my kneecaps clink together in bed

a smile whispers across my face
when i peer at the silhouette of my fingers
less blood and flesh and more the papery hands of dried up trees
against the burning blue sky of winter

envy chokes me like midnight smoke
weaving its way through strands of dead vines
every time i see the long, thin legs of supermodels
or of that one sweet girl with light brown hair
and a honeyed smile i knew from a three-week escapade

i tell myself and others i feel healthier,
that my hip bones protruding from my skin is desirable,
that i am loved and wanted just the way i am.

rather, my love is like a snake wrapped around its own master
squeezing affirmations and dissuasive persuasions from
the boy who is my home,
a finite connection in this world of infinite possibility.

i ask myself if the world would be a better place without me
every time i'm reminded of the expiration date
of my most coveted possession,
of the love that is the only thing i truly own for myself
in this godforsaken earth.

who am i to tell if it will all work out?