Beauty in her bones

Feeling the weight
Of the food on her plate
Her bodily mass will not convert to reality
The numbers warp and suffocate her,
Tape measure tying her down,
A prisoner in her own fleshy jail.

Whispering "There's beauty in my bones",
She releases herself from the faults of her fat
And expels imperfection into the porcelain rim of the bowl,
ecstatic that her stomach is burning up inside and becoming clean,
Clean, clean, so very clean
And very empty.