I count my ribs, 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
He owns me.
There is cake at the reception, a buffet line.
But he forbids eating them, and
We are Mr. And Mrs. Anorexia Nervosa.