I wonder if I will let myself eat cake on my birthday?
I don’t want 25 to be the year that I waste away.


Every sprinkle

is a number,

every morsel

fuels my hunger.


In the mirror,
stands my executioner.

If I am to die any time soon
Please, lord, let it be on a Sunday afternoon;
Let it be 15 degrees with a slight breeze;
Let it be under a soft sky with a purple hue;
Let it put an end to me feeling so blue;
As the aeroplane trails fade out of sight,
Let the blackbird song lull me into night.

Is it my voice, or yours, that I hear
When I pick up a knife and fork and put
It straight back down because
I haven’t earned my reward?

Are they my eyes, or yours, that trick me
Into thinking I’ve gained immense amounts of weight,
Even though my clothes hang loose and
I’ve lost two inches off my waist?

*

It’s ironic,
this disease;
it eats away at me.
The malignancy consumes me.

I love baking,
But I only allow myself the pleasure of making,
And let everyone else do the tasting.

As I lay here dying,
(A vessel out of mind and out of sight)
I know I need not be afraid of the dark,
For I more than fear the light.

So let us go then, you and I,
As the sky
Swells purple,
Vivid like petals from the asters-
Whilst pearlescent pigeon feathers pirouette down from the rafters.
As I gaze with my eyes
At your beautiful soul;
I no longer have to search for my home.

I was bric-a-brac smashed to pieces during a heart attack;
A spirit released from her worldly oath;
A genie escaping from her bottle;
A servant fuelled by self-loathe.

When my world was ending in an earthquake-
Much like a baby crying from the rubble-
And when they dropped the first atom bomb-
Much like a cockroach in its armoured bubble-
I survived.