My waist is not thinner
than a piece of paper.
I choke on bone chips
as you put the last of four
sugars in your coffee cup.
I tell you I’ve been eating
cotton balls again
and you say
but you were so light.
I look at my shoelaces
like worms spelling out,
we don’t use this heart anymore.

I picture Ophelia in the tub,
her kneecaps poking through
mountain crescents, her nipples
sturdy like cranberries and I envy her.

She submerges, and I sway.

Originally published in White Wall Review 41 (2017)