I. 

Asteroids kiss craters into Pluto.

Debris spews into the atmosphere.

Losing pieces of myself,

becoming gaunt,

my orbit wobbling.

Eyes cast forth to Mercury—

her path sturdy—

a brisk clip.

I recognize her craters—

mirroring mine—

more eroded.

She doesn’t travel alone.

Moons flock to her,

galloping to keep up.

My core rumbles,

I travel alone.

My best friend from high school

just got married.

Rail thin, eyes bright.

She was anorexic—

maybe I should’ve been too.

II.

When a round girl loses weight,

people congratulate her.

They don’t worry.

I set alarms on my phone

five a day—

I know I’ll ignore two:

“Remember to eat!”

I didn’t want to lose weight.

I loved my soft curves

and the way my skinny jeans fit

“Remember to eat!”

Too busy.

I saw it in my eyes first.

They’ve always been big—

now they’re planets.

Skin sinks in,

revealing twin forms of Pluto.

Pluto isn’t a planet.

“Remember to eat!”

Remind me later.

I leave my room by 7:30 a.m.

Pluto completes orbit after 2 a.m.

Have I eaten today?

Don’t remember.

A new cycle begins.

“Remember to eat!”

Tomorrow.

Inches wave goodbye—

My pants don’t fit anymore.

Pluto lost 4.6 lbs. last week.

An auger hollows from the inside out

scraping out her guts—

“You look so healthy!”

“Remember to eat!”

Too tired.

Pluto’s best friend is

the way water slips down her esophagus

weaving its way to a barren cavern

like a river.

The rumblings from her core

are natural phenomena.

Sun distant, surface cold—

she shines for her moons.

Orbs glassy,

hazy spots cloud her eyes,

but she just

        keeps

                looking.

“Remember to eat!”

She doesn’t want to.