As I stand in front of my closet, I tumble and climb to get to the top shelf

because that is where I hide my five dollar scale.

Seizing it down, I set it on some hard surface

because scales on carpets don’t give an accurate read.

And as my body shakes, I only hope the number doesn’t exceed…

 

I look down, passing my hipbones and undying strength I have yet to see in that number.

I cry as I walk to settle my knees, and I feel my throat become raw.

Hanging my head over the porcelain devil, knowing my plan to salvation is a flaw.

I purge out all the humiliations and mutilations that plaque my nation

Heaving, “Mother, I never meant to be this way.”

I have fasted for over a week, and I don’t know who I am.

Cosmo is only washing my mind with the fastest diet, and how to lose another gram.

But I have only learned the two fingers to come to my fat stomach’s aid.

And how to hide the scars I make with those same fingers and a thumb with a blade.

 

Now my doctor tells me my heart rate is dangerously low,

that I could choose to go to the hospital,

or some inpatient center downtown.

I was to seek sanctuary, though as an inpatient, I was too impatient.

 

And once I went into that center for emaciated girls with stories on each wrist

I didn’t know what it was like to want to exist.

Because that chapel around the corner only filled my body with ware

and the hymns of children were only cries for help, not prayer

Spelling out: c-r-why is this happening to me?

 

Never did I once hear, “Sweet heart, your body is beautiful, let it be.”

And soon, I imagine dying there on that cold bathroom floor.

Knowing that skinny will never be enough for me, as I taste hospital air.

Now no one will ever remember my voice, because I fell on that floor with a thud.

And no one will remember my smile, because they found me covered in my own sweat and blood.

Screams of, “You could’ve come to me. I never knew, I swear.” Will follow with silence.

And I’ll lay there weak, wondering if I will die from this diet.

And when I tell people I wanted to be perfect, they will tell me bones are to be shamed

 

Never mind the stereotypes of others, because I did not deserve to be blamed

Counting calories is not a hobby.

Purging life is not a game.

Soon, I am only going to be broken bones and an empty heart.

 

But, here’s my one true gain: I will leave this world with an influence that cuts deeper than any blade.

Because my future daughter will learn to see that beauty is not defined by the size of her jeans,

And no matter what, skinny is not a promise to be made.