There is nothing ****, romantic, beautiful or admirable
In starving, bingeing or throwing up.
It doesn’t make you different
And it doesn’t mean you’re in control.
Fish-Bone body,
Spine like shards of glass,
Risking a rupture each time you indulge your
sordid, secret habit.
Why are you trying to find beautiful words
To pretty your ugly, violent acts?
There are none.
There is no beauty
In ***** and bile,
There is nothing to admire
In the punching of your stomach
The water loading,
The blisters on your knuckles
And your grey, grainy skin.

I watched someone die from this.
I refuse to do it again.

I'll be staying till
night falls today.
I'll be doing
experiments
and testing
out my
hypothesis'.

Call me a dork,
but I'd rather do
this on a cold
Thursday night
than cut
myself to
sleep.

Behind the glass
          there are

                                                                                              b
                                                                                              r
                                                                                              o
                                                                                              k
                                                                                              e
                                                                                              n

                                                                                          clocks.


Reflections of a foolish,

                                                                                               s
                                                                                               i
                                                                                               c
                                                                                               k

                                                                                             girl.


Trapped in an adult body,
             the Artist l i n g e r s
      beneath her mother's eyes;
          
                                                                                                  c
                                                                                                  a
                                                                                                  p
                                                                                                  t
                                                                                                  i
                                                                                                  v
                                                                                                  e

                                                                                                 of

                                                                                     i m a g i n a t i o n.

Caught inside the vicarious film
            outside of r e a l i t y;
       you were my favorite drama

                                                                                                   e
                                                                                                  m
                                                                                                   b
                                                                                                   e
                                                                                                    l
                                                                                                    l
                                        

It started with the writing desk,
    my friends:

                                                                               the Green Wolf

                                                                               the White Tiger

                                                                                        and

                                                                              the Black Horse.


I huddled in the claw tub;
   thinking of familiar faces

                                                                                    within
                                                                                       the
                                                                                 f u r r o w;

                                                                         how I adored them
                                                                         smiling back at me.


I spoke to my father in the mirage;
   my reflection stared back at me

                                                                          his lips mirrored
                                                                                 my own
                                                                                    with

                                                                               r i d d l e s.


I spoke to my mother in the mirage;
   my reflection stared back at me

                                                                        her lips mirrored
                                                                                my own
                                                                                   with

                                                                             a n s w e r s.


The water
r i s e s
from    the    spring;

                                                                                      b
                                                                                      u
                                                                                      r
                                                                                      n
                                                                                      i
                                                                                      n
                                                                                      g

                                                                      the withering shadow

                                                                               drowning
                                                                       in    the    claw    tub.


The water
d r a i n s
from    the    body

                                                                                          c
                                                                                          h
                                                                                          i
                                                                                          l
                                                                    &n

you asked me if i
thought it hurt when
icarus threw himself into the
sun

i didn't have the heart to
tell you how the story ended
how he woke up in a burn
ward

how he flipped a coin
heads or tails and when
it came up daedalus was still
dead

you can romanticize it all you
want but we all know who's
who in this metaphor and how
sweet

it will feel when you incinerate
me i promise when i wake up
wherever that is i'll still write you
psalms

First there is the prep.
The roommate.
Wearing salmon colored pants.  
He has Shaggy from ****** Doo
On his left thigh.
The alcoholic.
She has a drinking problem.
She is in denial of her drinking problem.
She hangs out with the loners.
The loners.
Unkempt, unattractive and fat in all the wrong places.
The blond looks like Tom Petty.
The one with dark hair, glasses and braces
They live next door.
Living together but segregated. 
Wild cards.
All of us.

©Gambit '13