Eating Disorders
The glass has teeth—
it bites at dawn,
gnawing away what flesh I thought was mine.
A rib is a rung to heaven,
but the ladder never ends.
Numbers bloom red on the bathroom scale,
they hum like insects in the skull.
I am a mannequin—
wire shoulders, hollow eyes,
a smile stitched with needles.
Children bruise themselves
against invisible rulers.
They carve equations into skin:
less, less, less.
The mirror spits back a stranger,
a body mangled into myth,
a coffin that walks,
polished with hunger.
Depression wears a crown of glass,
stress rattles its beads of bone.
We hate the face we are given,
we hate the face we invent.
The mirror waits, patient as winter,
to swallow us whole.
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