romantic affairs.


I count my ribs, one 
by one.
The perfect xylophone, it seems. 
I tap out the wedding march, 
dun, dun, dundun. My face 
as white as my gown, my spine 
popping out. My groom, 
handsome as ever, 
dressed in black. He holds out the ring, and I whisper 

I do. 
He owns me. 

There is cake at the reception, a buffet line. 
But he forbids eating them, and 
I listen. 


We are Mr. And Mrs. Anorexia Nervosa.


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