I strip the hours bare,
unclothed of bread, of sweetness,
leaving only the pulse of hunger to keep me company.

The body resists—
it bargains, it pleads—
yet I refuse its theater of need.
What I shed is not only flesh,
but the gravity of years
that pressed me into shapes I did not choose.

Appearance is a fickle mirror,
yet effort—
effort is a blade.
It cuts away the veil,
exposes the raw scaffolding of discipline,
the scaffold on which I rebuild myself.

I do not chase beauty.
I chase silence—
a silence where appetite bends,
where control is sharper than desire.

And when the fast has passed,
I emerge—not lighter only in form,
but steadier in the knowledge
that absence itself
can be a kind of creation.

"Don’t judge a book by its cover."
Sorry,
but let’s be honest—
a beautiful cover
draws attention.

And your cover?
Does it draw attention?

Looking at your cover,
would I know the story you tell?
The food you love?
What you’d buy?
What you’d wear?
Who you’ve lost
or who you’re searching for?

Who would be your publisher?
Who would be your author?

Do you even like your cover?

Would you be at the bookstore entrance,
or lost among the shelves,
hidden between so many other covers,
passing unnoticed?

A shatter of glitter
Breaks over her eyes
When she looks in the mirror:

Swathes of pink
Speckled by silver circles
Matched by the anxious glittering
Of the waterfall
That is her earrings.

It's her last glance
To hold the spectre
Of herself
Until she explodes
With the other girls;
Prim and dainty.

Is it my fault
That I look at someone
And feel repulsed
By the way their
Body flows?
That I can’t look at anyone
And not rip
And pick apart
Every little flaw they have;
A crooked smile,
Lopsided eyes,
A tilted nose,
Hairy limbs,
Flaky skin,
Tilted lips,
An asymmetrical face,
A too-big forehead,
Puffy cheeks,
A bloated stomach,
Humongous thighs,
Giant arms,
A wide frame,
Bushy eyebrows,
Monkey ears,
Uneven feet,
Messed up hands,
A normality in a flawed creation
Yet it’s all that catches my eyes
When I look at
People in the lifts,
In the shops,
On the street,
In the corridors,
In a home,
In a room,
In the mirror.
“Wrong! Wrong!” My brain screams
In terror
It’s right, I suppose,
That monster in the reflection must be
The consequences of an
Error.

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
“you ought to open up more,” which opens
his worth to being diminished.

We only cry when the world is asleep, painting
smiles on our faces to render our outer walls
somewhat pleasing to your gaze.  

We fight private wars, striving to shield those
we love from the fallout – yet the scars we bear
are somehow unsightly in your view.

We’ll conform to your contradictions, offering
our utmost to project an image of strength for
the women, while our brothers are the only ones  
who truly understand our weaknesses.  

The hardships of a man are his silent battles –
and it is only his fellow men who can truly
witness their tears.

Spotlights, reflected

off the gold celebrity:


image on image.

Let me say that things are strange,
I am a strange man in a strange world.
I am barely here,
A Wraith
Seen only in reflection
Moving in shadows
Seldom acknowledged
Yet sentient.
Are you there? Can you hear me?
My invisible form wishes to be seen.
My existence justified only by function.
"Love me...
Like me...
Hear me..."
I say without sound.
How can I manifest in this world?