I was only twelve.
I was overwhelmed.
And it’s a story that we know all too well:
of the little girl who learns to hate
herself because of what she ate
and as the hours turn to days
she fades away.
The sparkle goes from behind her eyes
and as fat disappears from her little thighs
she starts to whisper little lies
‘I promise you, I had my meal’
she loses touch with what is real.
She learns to love the dizziness when she stands
and how the number on the scale
is finally completely in her hands,
more than she ever loved herself.
And her poetry book sits on the shelf
because at the end of the day she’s too tired
to ever feel inspired
to do anything but sleep.
Her body is too weak.
And the number keeps dropping
and there is nothing stopping her,
even her doctor who says ‘Congratulations’
on what she lost
he doesn’t recognize how lost
she is.
She’s left alone to break the cycle
but she doesn’t want the pain to end
she’d rather twist and break and bend
around the breakfasts and lunches and dinners
because if she eats she becomes a sinner
a heretic of her paper thin church.
And she cannot think of which is worse:
not to eat or to be fat.
And in her mind the prayer repeats:
thou shalt not eat, thou must not eat
She never has time to rest or to heal
because nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.