Shades drawn,
chair against door,
she faces the mirror,
and turns ever so slowly,
watching her body's reflection in the glass,
and raises her arms and points her toes –
now a side view:

Thick of stomach
quivers
imperfect.

She'll run more,
six miles tonight,
bike, lunch and dinner,
and no snacking.

A glass of juice,
or an apple,
if she has to ...

Someone's calling through the keyhole.
There's piano to practice,
homework to do.
She blocks the doorway with her body
and wipes her eyes.

She knows she's falling
and she wants to let them catch her,
and hold her,
and save her –
they would do it for her, too.
But she's played on too long now,
there's no turning back.
Hung head and empty mouth,
it's all about control,
and she knows who's boss.