Four out of five children are afraid
of being one word - fat.
Anorexia isn’t a fad it’s a disease,
and six out of one hundred people with anorexia
kill themselves to be what they see in the media,
photoshopped bleach blonde Barbies
who would kill or be killed to be perfect . . .
ten percent are ten or younger,
thirty-three percent are between eleven and fifteen
forty-three percent are between sixteen and twenty, and
fourteen percent are over twenty years old.
This is proportionate to the eight million who have
struggled with this mental distortion for on average
seven year’s time. Don’t believe lessening yourself
will make you better.
Prettier, smarter, and nicer don’t correspond
with “unhealthfully skinny”. I could hold eggs in
your collarbones and hang ornaments from them
if I tried, and wrap both of my hands around your
thigh so my fingers touch you, are a living skeleton.
Your hip bones are like daggers and your ribcage
is more like a bird cage. You need to eat I just don’t want
to lose you . . . Your eyes are so sunken in they
might just fall out the back of your head you are worth
more than this. You were beautiful before this
demon possessed you and sucked the flesh out of you.
Cameras add ten pounds
to your body, even in pictures you still
look far from triple digits on a scale.
You’re losing your hair like car keys
and losing weight
as if there’s a vacuum inside you sucking in
your stomach so I can see through you. Your
thigh gap is the width of four fingers. You’re
getting so pale, I wish you could see that being
nothing but skin and bones will not gratify you,
not make you happy just one more
pound, just one more pound, just
one more pound. . . until the wind
will blow you away. . .
I wish you were still here to
hear me tell you, you were beautiful
from the very beginning, one hundred
and twenty pounds and thick hair. . .
I’m sorry, I’m sorry you became
Your coffin is like an empty suitcase
Baby’s breath permanently
clasped in your hands, as fragile as you