June was a girl i knew years ago;
she wore lace-up boots and floral buttondowns
with ripped jeans. her collarbones were so sharp
they could snap in half like matchsticks,
or slice hot and sweet like a knife across tissue paper.
June ate shards of glass for breakfast in a bowl,
pouring milk and spooning them up between her teeth.
she drank mercury and it slid
cool like liquid silver down her throat. i always wondered
when she’d have to see the doctor
(surely no one could survive a diet like that)
and she had bruises up and down her wrists like flower petals.
but June never went to the doctor;
i asked her why. because i can handle it, she said.
handle what?
everything, she told me.
everything.