She is tongueless with stitched shut lips and wide staring eyes that see the skin that grows and stains previously bone-and-marrow hips, lashes a-flutter though she's stopped wearing her mascara, there is no need, there is nothing for her to show you underneath the casing of calorie dreams. She swallows her teeth because there is nothing left inside her mouth but dust bowls and incisors, and they don't make the weight disappear. She sees the apocalypse in the concave bend of her torso that in her nightmares balloons forth like a pregnant disease, spawning a million little starving babies in the same teen queen gear that adorns their mother. She drags sharp fingernails across the blades of her ribcage, holding the fragile red carcass of of her heart that thumps weakly against the bars her taste-addled mind has imposed. She cuts down and leaves bloody trails between the ridges there, down to the machete twist of her hip and pelvic bones, lovely crimson words that she promises to herself will always be fat free. She doesn't fill out her bras anymore but she sacrifices breasts - because what are they, except skin she doesn't need - in favor of the curve of her hips that is ceasing to exist. She runs a hand through thinning hair and smiles, hollowed eyes flickering from the rouge red lines on her almost-perfect-just-five-more-miles torso to the mouth that isn't there while it screams, she smiles hard like she's on TV during a very long race. Almost there. Almost. Almost. Almost. One more mouthful never swallowed and she will be happy then. Self-made promises come from a voice that's always tacit and dreamlined. Then she starts to see the imperfections in the mirror. Then she turns sideways and disappears.