Kid You Not

My hair is brittle and thin.

I’m forever cold to my core.

Weird peach fuzz grows

all over my skin

my body’s pathetic attempt

to hold heat.

It hurts to sit for long

on this jutting less-blasphemous butt.

My clothes hang from

boney hips and shrunken breasts.

Even my Jordache jeans

are loose.

Jelly shoes

grow too large,

hard ground jars

through the clear, smelly plastic.

Sunken eyes stare with

decreased depth perception.

I pinball off walls and people,

lacking the vigor to avoid them,

a zombie,

not from Thriller . . .

from Night of the Living Dead.

I am hollow. Alone.

But my real problem?

Your REAL problem!

My determination to stay

starving

is tired and weak.

My metabolism sooo slooooow,

my weight loss

stops.