she smiles sweetly

when i get home
sometimes
i stick my finger down my throat.
bulimia was a choice,
not a destiny
even though senior year
we all told meredith she was worth so much more
it was the lesson of the day back then.
you have to love yourself
if you are going to make it.
loving ourselves meant
you squared your shoulders and
walked with purpose, heels striking
the ground with force
a quick step, long pace.
loving ourselves meant striding along
in almost a light jog with a ferocity
you wore in your eyes and the
tension of your lips
that said to anyone who might
consider screwing with you
mothafucka i'll beat you
with the pointy heel of my
patent-leather stiletto if
you even so much as look at me for too long.

he fell in love with that sexy stepping
the way the wind raged through her hair
and they kissed soft sweet and secret
sweaty, in the ephemeral heat of september
until it didn't make sense
to continue doing so.
once home from dinner
she stuck her finger down her throat
because she'd eaten too much
and she couldn't have his waist smaller than hers
if theirs was to be a successful relationship.
the chaos pulsed in her oceanic eyes
waves of recognition were missing from his
that's fine, she told herself
he was a backup anyway. a side dish
keep it moving.
squared her shoulders,
head up, wind siphoning aggression
from her muscles
through her hair.