She has hollows everywhere. Spaces, blanks,
Fill the boxes with blubber and fat. She looks like
The BT Tower. The Bulemic Tramp. You are shocked.
Awed by her face on the telly, thin, haggard.
Moldable like putty. She talks funny, with a soft lisp
As if her lips are too thin to produce a sound.
She clasps her stomach in front of a camera and
Sees who she is. What has ingrained itself in her
So much that she cannot live beyond its definition.
A pinch of skin between her ghost white fingers.
Tiny. Significant. The gram sending her to torture
Or ecstasy. Yet now she is real, not made of stripes
In red, green and blue, but standing next to me
Propped on brittle classroom chalk bones.
That's where it started. The agony. She is my friend.
I care. I can't change her, I love her tortured ways.
She is stronger than I am.
Worships a higher power.
The cruel criminal calorie.
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