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.

“But I was so much skinnier back then,
And I looked so much better”
I hear myself say.
But I was drinking three meal replacement shakes a day
And passing out after running 3k.

Daisy.
A little flower with white petals that sometimes turn pink.
An orange centre that withstands the constant extraction of those petals,
with the pang and echo of tiny voice shouting
          “He loves me; he loves me not!
Often mistaken for a ****.

Daisy.
A girl who winces with insecurity
every time the nearest dandelion clock is
plucked from the soiled earth around her.
She watches with wet, reddened eyes
as she is paralysed
and unable to stop the careless children blow away Time,
as if it were some sort of lark,
seed by seed.

Daisy.
A witness to the exposure of stalks and leaves alike;
a veteran of the unwanted embrace and, indeed,
the wanton thieving of petals and memories and silence and voice
combined.

She is swaying but explicitly not
bending to the wind.
She stands her ground and she has
blossomed.