At first I was rude -
condescending to say the least.
Your hair was lank,
your face pale and sunken in.
The sight of your wrists made me flinch
with every movement you made.
I expected you to crumble into tiny pieces with every gesture,
brittle and fragile, bones severely protruding.

Clothes on you looked obsolete,
like drapes spread over bony furniture.
Grumpy, slouched, and sullen-eyed,
for months your waif-like frame haunted our family.
Mom would yell and shriek towards you,
and your full dinner plate.

But who’s to judge
and to be judged,
in this environment that
we are less than cradled in.

For you it was never, and never will be, about image,
for you it was all about the search for some control..
It startles me to think about you
slumped over a cold toilet,
finger down your throat.
It’s wrong and dark.
I feel a profound feeling of unease
every time it crosses my mind.

Yet now I understand these much needed truths.
Understated pain,
and a wavering loss of belonging.
We stand on common and rattled grounds.

I feel for you, bounded by sisterhood,
our tired eyes reflect the same weary look.
We both have our own form of control,
and together we can check out of these bad habits.

Because, who’s to judge
and to be judged,
in this environment that
we are less than cradled in.