Today I worried
Because these pretty little bones weighed too much.
It ate at my brain,
This disease, and I couldn’t think anymore.
I saw three numbers, but I wished for two,
And then maybe one,
And hopefully someday the one I want:
Zero.
Gone, absent, nonexistent.
Which I know can’t be true.
Because these pretty little bones alone
Weigh seventy-three pounds
Seventy-three pounds away from what I want to be.
I see the thick blanket of skin covering those around me,
And the one thin thread holding all of me in.
I see the soft, down warmth:
Comfort.
I am sheet metal in comparison.
Still, I need more …
Less, really.
And I always will.
Because these pretty little bones weigh
Just seventy-three pounds.
I got close once,
Dangerously and excruciatingly close,
That was ecstasy, until they brought me back
And this skeleton was stuffed until she wasn’t a skeleton anymore.
I’ll go back someday,
One final time,
Push these pretty little bones as close to my surface
As I possibly can.
It takes me over
And I can’t think anymore.
those filthy numbers,
they control me.
It is in me now.
It has become me.