Suffer to be Beautiful
I don’t eat bread or chocolate cake,
in dinners and breakfasts I do not partake,
there’s cherry plum pudding cooled fresh on the sill,
it may as well sit there – to me it’s all swill.
I cannot remember the taste of dessert,
when I climb out my dress my ribs creak and they hurt,
I’m down three sizes to a minus 2,
I need to put cotton in the sides of my shoes.
I cry in my sleep for one last little bite,
a glass of tap water stays my appetite,
my lips have not tasted a real crème Brule,
in so long my taste buds have just withered away.
my doctor and mother share the same phobia –
that my skin will stretch tight and eventually tear.
I suffer and diet and look like a rake,
but oh! What a beautiful corpse I will make!