Baby

I find her drowning in a puddle 
of dresses - all sizes, 
none of which fit. She begs my sympathy,
depleted of late. 

She can't / won't leave the house -
despite starvation - still 'too fat.'
I'd insist, but dread the histrionics; 
panic attacks; personal attacks. 
Cutting. Mopping up pity with self hate.

She asks if I love her -
harder to answer by the day. 
Wasn't always like this; there was kindness;
adoration for the laughing girl 
with gentle curves that filled the moulds
of two cupped hands. 

Now no one understands her...
You don't find me pretty any more!
Not attracted to me, are you? 
You don't want me, do you? Do you?

I walk - don't look, or say 
what's on my mind; briefly wonder 
how she'd cope 
if I didn't lie this time.