I push against the planet when I walk,
caress my iron thighs when I’m in bed,
but I don’t have a buddy I can talk
about this with, for she’s involved instead
with jagged cycles of pathology
and seesaws in the sand of self-esteem.
Her food is symbol and mythology;
her motivations never what they seem.

I know she vows and promises and slips,
and hates herself and hates the hating more.
She lets the easy-pleasing food eclipse
her greater good, rebels at keeping score,
and punishes herself so in the end
she’s enemy to her and me: my friend.