How would it feel
if
I confessed to you
that
I starve myself?
Would you feel threatened
if I said I did it for you?
Or would you feel the
slightest bit trapped?
What if I had an
innocent excuse?
That the only reason why
I prefer to diet
until my stomach
compresses,
and flattens out
every single
abhorrent pound of
flesh that
rots with
self-hatred,
that the meaning underneath
me
starving
until my ribs are kicking to
break through my skin,
is simply to
strip off the barrier between
you and
my skeleton.
skin thinning until
transparency,
conspicuously unmasking to you
how every raw bone of mine,
the ones that bend
in every motion
that you admire (or lust)
for,
really feel you from within.
Look closely and see
how my blood is thicker
than my skin itself,
with dense,
powerfully amorous chemicals
that you injected in me,
running through its stream.
let me starve.
I'll be keeping my
appetite,
sustaining the hunger
for your pleasantly
possessing
presence.

You kissed me on the forehead
and told me you'd be back
later at night
when you ended your shift.
The time in which
I would already be fast asleep
dreaming of the father
that you promised,
but never got the chance to be.
You excused your absences
with material goods used
to create a
superficial mind,
luxurious items that act
as remembrances of the bond
you and I lack.
The relationship that serves as
the vital component to our kinship.
But I cannot blame,
no,
I will not resent you
If I now know
that you would have been there
if you could have.
I just wish that
I would have known that before.
Before I let your absence
challenge my confidence,
and burglarize my
sense of security.
I wish I was not so
Ignorant to the fact that
you would
eventually
devise a way to generate
time for me,
before I spent nights on the streets,
knocking on every other door
of the neighborhood,
wooing each man of the house
until I would find the right
properly loving father
for my own,
along with the bonus of
something intimately more.
A lost
little street
*****.

I can
make
my body
into art,
a
musical instrument
that
cries out
and
sings
in an
eloquent language
of its own
for you,
when I
shove my
sharpened fingernails
into my arm,
scrape and shred
off skin,
finger and fidget
through flesh
and strum my
veins to the
tune of
your
song's haunting
melody.