The Masochist

A living carcass
Jutting rib cage, concave middle
Skin, like elastic stretched too far, falling from the bones like
Clothes on a hanger
Life expectancy plummets
But it doesn’t matter, because so do the numbers
Big, ugly, mocking demons living in the bathroom scale
They make you cry if you aren’t perfect
But a satisfied, twisted grin appears, because
The numbers are dying off
One by one, sometimes more, day by day
But there is no such thing as complete happiness
Until there are none left
Until there is nothing left of you but
memories and clear, thin air
You become invisible
But fading into nothingness
Is better than having to see something,
That imperfection, reflected back at you
In the mirror
So the kiss of death awaits a weakening heart
With a smile spread across her lips.