In Fixed

She grows more uncomfortable

With herself

She knows it’s time to change

With each day that passes

She loses more of her name

The pinkness of her breast

now faded to a putrid gray

the softness of her face

rigid as paper mache

She places her hand on her stomach

the bulge that penetrates her psyche

pierces right through her skin

into the barren space on her right

She listens to the radio

And watches the T.V.

Through her own neglect

She’ll never be free

She’s painting the embodiment of perfection

The epitome of beauty on her face

yet she doesn't see its infliction

the wrinkles of premature age

She crawls in her shadow

Trying to lessen her size

She doesn’t even realize

The damage to her knees

Her feet losing ground

As she forgets how to walk

She lies and does sit-ups

Neglecting her mouth

Like some pocrescophobic,

Her stomach is thin

Reaching her bones

Without reaching in

To where super-beings are copies,

Seven feet tall

36-24-36,

To her plastic model gods

She's offering up her entreaty

Ah yes, “it’d be wonderful”

As she loses her body