Desperate hands clutching ribs
Desperate palms clutching stomach
Desperate fingers clutching wrists
Ragged breathing as I feel the bloating
Low whimpers as I scratch my skin like I'm digging in the dirt
Well I practically am digging in dirt
I'm dirt because the numbers in my notebooks are rising each day
I'm dirt because my clothes are tighter than they were days before
Ribs feel so good to touch
Why did you let them get away?
Fingers feel better connected at the bone
Why did you separate them?
Stomach feels satisfying empty
Why did you fill it up?
Hips feel more exquisite rising up above the skin
Why did you bury them?
All the more reasons why I'm dirt.
The song that my belly sings has not been on the radio for some time now
If only I could stop eating eating eating
And cheating cheating cheating on restrictions
And greeting greeting greeting food like an old friend
Because food is not a friend
It's an enemy
With an agenda to expel me
From high self esteem
But it cannot expel me
From being high on starvation
Not when I'm determined to
suffocate it in my napkin.
YOU ARE READING
Eunoia
PoetryBehind every poem is a story too afraid to be told bluntly. . . . I intend to write to make you feel.
