Perfect

When I am exhausted, I will not sleep.

When I am hungry, I will not eat.

And when I am finished and am finally set free,

I will be perfect; just like I’ve wanted to be.

But until then, I will turn skeletons into goddesses and look to them as if they may teach me how not to need.

For I am of absolutely no worth and deserve nothing but my own shame.

Not for long.

Soon, I will be perfect.

I will be thin, light as a feather, floating on air, barely there.

Soon, I will disappear, and leave no trace of myself behind for others to find.

I will die today.  When the clock strikes midnight, I will be gone forever.

And when the sun rises, I will be the one they want.

I will be the daughter they have always wanted, the beautiful friend, the one everyone notices and adores. 

I will be the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame. 

I will be the picture of beauty, thin and self-sustaining. 

Like a plant, I will train myself to relieve on nothing, to draw nourishment from the air.    

Yes, I will die today.  When I fall asleep, I will disappear, as if I was never here. 

And when I wake, I will be the perfect mannequin.