She is a chameleon, 

lurching in the corners of the body 

you don’t notice anymore.

She stares into the mouth 

of her toilet. Her back carved out

like a question mark

Outside the locked door, 

my five year-old sister hums

the Barney theme song 

But she doesn’t hear it

She chooses not to

Her gags merge with the sickening smell

of flannel pajamas worn

in summer weather and 

a razor blade rusting on the shower floor

I stare at the food she ate for dinner,

sinking into toilet water

and the grimy currents beneath.

I know I promised to stop

letting her do this, 

but she made me forget why.

She is a chameleon,

and this time

she blended into me.