Crafty, they say, He's getting crafty
crafty with my lies and my made-up meals
crafty with my sound-blocking tactics
crafty with hiding the burning lines of white and red.
Baking, they say, He's getting into baking
baking my binges
baking my restriction
baking my omad
baking my sad-looking low-cal low-fat low-sugar low-carb high-protein
'meal'.
Crochet, they say, He's getting into crochet
crocheting ankle warmers to make my legs look skinny
half-finger gloves in an attempt to curb the permafrost that has begun to
knit itself around my bones.
Healthy, they say, He's getting healthy
as i workout until i faint
and do sit-ups until i have bruises on my spine.
fruit and veg and vitamins take priority
and suddenly i have taken an interest in running.

Someday my bones will protrude,
pushing up like daisies across the fields of my skin,
because I have died over and over,
every day I died,
and this one last time I will be beautiful and sunken in,
and this last time Ana will have controlled me;
when Ana said she wanted me dead,
I knew she would someday make it happen.
Because I cannot afford to be saved,
someday I will be the one the funeral is for.