Proana Obituary

the headline that day.

You contorted your barbed-wire nerves into perfection,

Beauty of form: a 9.9 on the velvet runway;

Trendy pink satin frills over a bone-thin, chortling skeleton;

Bowed legs of a wet foal trying to stand,

Clinging to uneven, wavering ground;

Cheekbones glistening defiantly

Under hot neon-green-with-envy lights.

Nameless numbers judging you:

Your rickety form of dried-up substance.

You, too, knew deep down you were nothing;

You might even have applauded the headline pun out of your existence;

It made your sadness palpable to the machine that spit you out.

Ana oh, thirty pounds more would have stopped your heart,

So you sold your soul for a piece of day-old bread

and a glass of 5-cent punch.