To My Old Friend Ana

Danielle Eschedor

We smelled like death, she and I,
but we were running after perfection together.
I didn’t care about anything
except her, and the number of inches
around my shrinking waist.
I didn’t care that my brother was drowning
in the dark sea of depression.
I didn’t notice my hair falling out around me
like tinsel on a dead Christmas tree.
I wasn’t worried about my grades
because I couldn’t see a life past sixteen.
All I wanted was beauty
in her sick, twisted way.
But it was more than food,
more than my thighs or my stomach,
more than a fun house mirror;
we were committing suicide together

But I didn’t make it.
I never got to see my bones,
never saw a model in my mirror,
never reached perceived perfection
because I found out that perfection doesn’t exist
except in the life of a King
who lowered Himself
to die for every broken soul like me,
so I gave up everything.