Give me that sweet sugar-soaked surrender,
cinnamon-bun sadness and pumpkin-pie self-pity.
One bite, can't stop.
Feed me until the only room left is stuffed with empty guilt.
One bite, can't stop.

Feed me until I can't enjoy the taste,
and I only feel satisfied when I feel hungry.
Put a stop on that tap of running syrup.
Close the lid of the pristine white bakery box, and lock it with chains of metal.
(The kind you can't break, even on your weak days.)

Close your mouth to everything offered.
Feel the pride of staying hungry.
One pound, can't stop.
No thank you - I had a big breakfast.
One pound, can't stop.
No thanks - I ate too much at lunch.
Avoid comments, evade questions and concerns.

One pound

Only four hours and thirty-three minutes
until that sergeant called the scale or maybe it's just your brain
will let you eat for the second time today.

One bite

Stand naked in front of the mirror,
a scavenger hunt for new bones to see.

Can't stop

Swell with happiness as your body dissolves like the cubes of sugar you once let melt on your tongue.

Tongues clicking, watches ticking,
pens tapping, power snapping.
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing,
the same thing, over and over,
the same thing.
Gum popping, smiles stopping.
Expecting a new result from a singular action, repeated.
Chains turning, blood churning,
tongues clicking, smiles stopping.
They say
the same thing, repeated,
expecting
me to listen.

They fly and float,
flick here and then there,
feet touching rhythm
and eyes closed to sight.
Their hearts beat in time
to the noise of the crowd
brought by the sight
as the man and girl
dance alone in the night.

This stop next.
This stop here
is empty,
save for benches stickered with gum
and trash cans bolted to cement.
The sign for this stop,
this stop here,
is bright with paint over its faded letters
This stop is next
to buildings with fences as high as the windows,
buildings with windows as dark as the tracks
of the train that brought me to this stop here.
Here there are no people left.
Left of the tracks the trees are stark and the sun is high but time is stilled and at this stop, here,
I don't know what's next.