I am watching you get sick.
The whites of your eyes are becoming
yellow yolks; cheeks hang like grocery bags.

You make diets of day planners;
No time to eat with a stuffed calendar.

Meals are powdered hot chocolate packets.
Breakfast is tap water.
NyQuil for a midnight snack.

To invite happiness inside him,
Vincent Van Gogh drank paint of yellow hues.
You do mad things for happiness, too.

Vomit for an after school sport.
Your teeth blister. Bathe in sea salt
to dehydrate water weight.

Eating disorders are very in.
Like kale, like Michael Kors,
like old Hollywood glamour-

and don’t you dare bring up Marilyn Monroe.
Recent studies show her frame was only
one third of what you think.
Shrivel your stomach until it takes
a single granola bar to feel full.

With pale pupils and unplugged irises,
the only language you communicate in is
numbers.

You are a human recycling bin.
Blame your hometown, your mother,
anything but your skin.

If you are not recovering, you are dying.

There was another girl in our grade
who got sick about the same time you did,
but she went to the hospital real quick
because she was already thin to begin with.

You were not thin to begin with.

You were fat, and now you’re evaporating,
so everybody is congratulating you on
getting “healthy.”

You are not an illness, but an inspiration.
Your father still carries your before-and-after
photo in his wallet.
Your disease is a smashing sensation.

Friend, I am so sorry.
You too, are sick.

Your messiah Kate Moss insists
“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

…Girl, she’s never had Nutella.
Do not trust her, her two-faced
dental care, or her fur pelt.

Anorexics develop hair all over to thaw
their glacial bodies, called lanugo.
The cold will not let you go.

Veins bulging like a pop up book,
I am watching you get sick.

Mistake tracing paper for your skin.
I am watching you get sick.

When the blackouts start and your pulse gets
slippery, wallpaper your interior with laxatives.
I am watching you get sick.
Read so much, your body trusts it is
full on authors, not high on hunger.
I am watching you get sick.

One day, you will learn.
The natural pigments will return-
no more yellow skin, no blue fingernails,

no red scratch in your throat
matching the nick on your middle finger.

Make amends with the kitchen.
Your face will glow like a television.
You will get full again. Be able to finish a meal.

One day, I hope I’ll be able to finish this poem and say-

I am watching you heal.
I am watching you get better.