Is to Am

Frail body
Tiny bones
Fleshless
Is ultimate.

Start small,
Skip lunches
2 meals a day
Is enough.

Self control
Breakfast useless
If dinner
Is inevitable.

Secret grins
In the bathroom
As the scale
Is dwindling.

Loss stops
Line of weight loss flattens
The logarithmic limit
Is 104.3.

Nails brittle
Skin yellowed
My hair
Is falling out.

I can't pass
That evil number
104.2
Is impossible.

Nonetheless, 
People notice
The threat of treatment
Is high.

Anorexic at 12
Chance sounds slim (ha)
But the chance
Is there.

I can't study
Can't run
Can't ride
Can't work
Can't live
Can't sit in
A normal fucking plastic chair
If my body
Is emaciated.

Parents know
Doctor knows
Tough love
Is lifeguard.

No choice
But to shape up
Or ship out
To a hospital?
To residential treatment?
To a fucking casket?
Destination
Is unknown.

I'm forced to plunge in.

I'm stared at suspiciously
During meals, humiliated
No privacy 
And the world
Is watching.

For the first time
I have stretchmarks
But my body rejoices
My hair
Is back.

I'm tempted from time to time
But I'm needed by
My pets, my family, my partner, myself
Almost completely, I
Am better.

This poem is about: 
Me

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