We drank coffee for dinner,
I watched my body cave in.
Her smile has never shone so bright.
In the white room that evening,
she tried to kill herself happy
but the weapon was too strong for her grip.
I trace the bones that line her wrists,
she rips them out, they’re much too big.
When I visited the white room with her,
she marveled at how the walls were deafeningly thin.

We ate an apple for dinner.
Does that make me bigger?
she asked me with bloodshot eyes.
I trace the lines on her slab of stone.
I wonder if the dinner was why
she found a weapon

that didn’t need a grip,
nothing to slip through her waning hands.
I could light a candle, maybe
I could make myself sick and
bring back the feeling she had.

She drank coffee for dinner.
She wondered if she grew bigger
would she disappear from the earth.
She looked at fires
she could burn herself smaller.
As small as ash held soft in my hand.

Now she sits in a white room,
forces some dinner.
She misses how misery would taste.
I missed my dinner.
It reminds me of her.
We don’t talk much more, I fear.

Her grip grew stronger,
she can hold onto
a coffee cup on the eve
of her birthday.
I didn’t think she’d make it
now she’ll blow out the candle of three.

She grew bigger
and her time grew longer.
She slipped her bones back in
her fragile wrists.
I wonder if she misses
the caving of her body from within.
Four years later
I still think of her
and how she looked on the year of three.
Her hair grew longer
her eyes look stronger.
Her words sound sure when I hear

how she’d talk about her day
and the meals she ate.
Although I can’t help the voice that persists
over cups of coffee
and crumbs that fall
We might talk more in the future, I fear.