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Patroclus Sep 18
Crafty, they say, He's getting crafty
crafty with my lies and my made-up meals
crafty with my sound-blocking tactics
crafty with hiding the burning lines of white and red.
Baking, they say, He's getting into baking
baking my binges
baking my restriction
baking my omad
baking my sad-looking low-cal low-fat low-sugar low-carb high-protein
Crochet, they say, He's getting into crochet
crocheting ankle warmers to make my legs look skinny
half-finger gloves in an attempt to curb the permafrost that has begun to
knit itself around my bones.
Healthy, they say, He's getting healthy
as i workout until i faint
and do sit-ups until i have bruises on my spine.
fruit and veg and vitamins take priority
and suddenly i have taken an interest in running.
little rant about my ed
- Patroclus
  Sep 18 Patroclus
The cursed number
In bone and blubber
The taste inescapable
My thoughts are nonsensical
Shrink it further
To be skinny I'd ******
The burden of weight
All myself I hate.
Patroclus Sep 18
a green stripe up to my knees;
there it is.
a monument to all i am
and all i will ever be.
painting some trousers
Patroclus Sep 18
they can't see, they can't see
that it coats my bones, bulges against my skin;
those little yellow bubbles
that make me want to give in.
Patroclus Sep 18
it is nothing, nothing
to sit here and talk to you.
to let your voice in, let it sink into my bones
and settle me into my chair
like an old centurion rock.
Breathing, it is easier than breathing,
the conversation flows freely
a tributary from yesterday
and the day before that
and the day before that.
Patroclus Sep 18
It is nothing to fill the void,
with sweet things and a metallic aftertaste,
but always i feel it should be empty, so i
leave it. There is no point
in filling an emptying pit.

And i think my socks are wearing thin,
because what was yesterday a scab
is bitter and angry today, a
gaping hole on my heels that seems
to always be wrong place, wrong time.

It is nothing to stay quiet.
What i lack in words, my body screams for me, in
bruises and amnesia and wet
ears always primed and ready for a call that will never come.
Patroclus Sep 18
i cut and i cut and i cut and i cut and yet
Still, it is there. One
post-it-note in permanent marker,
a diary entry written in pen.
Woman, it says.
a lot of trans guys self harm on their chest, so i thought i'd write about it
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