Lovely, lovely, Sweetheart, aren’t you pretty.
They all comment as I walk in the door.
If only this couldn’t-wouldn’t kill me.
Is this punishment or cruel disease
That I feel eating me deep in my core?
Lovely, lovely, Sweetheart, aren’t you pretty
Beautiful enough to faintly agree.
Why is food a vice I cannot deplore?
If only it couldn’t-wouldn’t kill me.
Stopping the purging is necessary,
And I think I could be deaf and ignore
Lovely, lovely, Sweetheart, aren’t you pretty.
I’m all bones where I used to be happy.
Now in the mirror I see a binging whore.
If only this couldn’t-wouldn’t kill me.
I’m far beyond help as I entreat “Please,
Anyone, save me!” Quit telling me you’re
Lovely, lovely, Sweetheart, aren’t you pretty.
Because I know this can and will kill me.
Written April 11, 2003 for Poetry
