The pretty girls bend over, flaming toilet bowl desire,

stomach contents splatter,

repulsive bodily banter,

the relief of liquid fire.

she become a cold stone-tile dancer,

she worships the throne, porcelain white god prancer.

she closes the door, turns on the water, putrid stench looms,

her hope for relief, her best friend, the bathroom.

Her heart flutters, and speeds it's beat,

she feels empty, euphoric, so worth the hideous heave.

Ephedra, caffiene, Metabolife, Anna Nicole with her Trimspa,

She can puke with no fingers, "Look Ma!"

The cradle of self-loathe,

a slow death sentence imposed.

Get on the scale, get off the scale,

the numbers will make or break her day, a fine line between pass or fail.

2 peanuts, 1 slice of fat free cheese, a cookie, sugar-free gum,

still a trip to the toilet, press eject, she has met her Kingdom Come.

No more than 200 calories,

consumed by her mirrors lies and falicies.

Starving away bad feelings, empty, hungry fingers caress bones,

are they ALL showing? "Fat pig!" Such atrocities to atone.

With an urge,

to purge,

she eats, with a dead, blank stare,

can't swallow fast enough, meeting Bulimia's disapproving stare.

Breast lift, liposuction on every inch,

there's no pleasing this angry grinch.

Botox, saddle bags, tummy tuck,

oh, WHAT THE FUCK!?

Her bare feet on the bathroom tile, boney knees bow down,

when that rush of power moves through her without a sound.

She has become a professional puker,

try as you might, arguements against this, it's impossible to refute her.

Flush after flush,

her spirit soon crushed.

Frightened at first, when she sees bile and blood,

a torn esophagus, her liver depleted, it release its foul flood.

Cleaning the remnants of her daily grind,

until next time, her dream, her goal, remains too tiny to find.

©2008 KMS