For an Old Friend

You disappointed me, Patricia.

I expected you to be in front of me
that day in DD when

I ordered that croissant donut and
coffee. That’s not really what
I ordered but who cares what it was.
Nobody except

our mutual eating disorders really does.

By the way, I spoke to Roy and he 
disowns you. Don’t think that it was ever out

of anything except love because that 
man emotionally bankrupted himself 
trying to save you.

Does that sound cliché? It shouldn’t.
He probably paid off every inpatient unit
and he probably gambled in addition

to whatever small salary that one music
school in New York gave him. Don’t

tell me you’re sorry he put himself
in Heaven in some pathetic effort to
engage a woman who wanted nothing except

to pray that for one hot minute she
would get the privilege of being invisible.
He bankrupted himself and I need to tell
you that to your face, Patricia, because

you don’t have one. You prayed to all the
Eating Disorder gods in your head that
you would know what it feels like to feel

forgotten and you took advantage of my
small kindness that day I visited you
in North Shore or wherever it was the

nurse made the mistake of hooking you up
to fluids. It was like visiting a Death Museum
the year I knew you. All you ever cared about
was disappearing. And if

you knew me, if you really knew me,
you would know that I am only ever frank
to people I cared about, Patricia. You

didn’t care that day and you sure as hell
probably didn’t care about Roy either. 
I know this, I know this like a human being knows

what it’s like to be broken. You broke us.
You don’t know much but you probably think
we’ll forget about you because you prayed

to be invisible. You’re finally invisible to us,
Patricia. Trust me. I had an eating disorder once.
I prayed to the same gods and believe me,

believe me when I tell you that when I say
you’re dead to me, I mean dead the way the 
Eating Disorder gods mean it. Dead

like a shoe.

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