Her mother shut the door and
Screamed a number.
17 but larger.
German skeletons were
inspiration for a picky eater.
Chicken legs were literal but
Never spoken of.
The ones that came home in
A bucket ended up
Where all the waste was.
And 17 became itself plus
Marrow and thin hair.
But every screen or
Glossy image joked with the
thick that wasn't there.
Extra, extra small, they read.
But one less x than perfect.
And 17 began to be the waste
She'd gotten rid of.
Attempts to throw herself away
In ropes of small, pink shorts.
And tied up jackets, jeans, these
Tacky things that fit a sickly
corpse.
A single dress was left alone.
The white with one more x.
The one she'd wear the night the
River tempted her with a cold kiss.
Black and white prints of the girls
she'd forced herself to be
Floated on the surface,
Her wasted memory.