My Bulimic Lover

My love is a ribcage with tits, and brittle bone limbs.

A taut concave tent of skin over the bowl of an abdomen, where I lay my head and stroke downy arms.

In a ritual daze she stumbles to the bathroom. To kneel before a toilet altar, lower her head into its echo chamber.

I gather up her hair in one hand and slide her skirt to the floor. Count down the notches in her spine to fleshless buttocks.

And fuck her as she retches, spluttering sweet words of devotion.

I love what's left of her.