Let these words
Slip of my tongue
And hang in the air
Like smoke
Let them
Become something you crave
More than the nicotine
That poisons your body
Make them your addictions
That thing you need at two in the morning
The thing you can't stop thinking about
Let these words off my tongue
Hanging in the air
Breath them in
Let them take over your body
Get your high
Off my words
Let my tongue be your addiction

Bulimia is a scary thing.
That is a fact.
She'll cradle and choke you.
But she'll get rid of the fat.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
But this is for sure-
The burning in your throat and mouth
Will not be the only sore.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
Late at night when you're alone
She'll be with you
Kneeling at the porcelain thrown.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
Because very soon
She'll have you dreaming
Of being a thinspo.

Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up

Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol

And all that venom just stifles and stinks

But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow

knuckles rubbed raw by
teeth so sharp and blunt
a tongue rough and silent

violent retching
self-harm for a throat
already held by a noose

she promises
just

one more cookie
one last bite
one last calorie
one last breath
one

the toilet bowl is her best friend
and she hugs it close
when no one can hear

Isn’t it something that two bodies connected by an unwritten creed, were emotionally trapped but physically freed?

As civil individuals the two gained public recognition, became restricted, by each other’s verbal jurisdiction.

They were paradoxical and fragile in more ways than one, like an albino celebrity, a star that stays away from the sun.

Now they say long distance love mandates communication for jubilation, but they had never been used to such distant segregation.

He wanted to be lint-less, and wanted her not to cling, he wanted to be free, to him this was just a fling.

She wanted to be loved and thought he wanted space, but secretly it killed her, thus the emotion on her face.

Now where I come into play, is relative but strange, seated in a class room that was randomly arranged.

Like the flipping of a coin, the result somewhat unknown, by chance we’d ended up somewhere private, and alone.

So, two bodies connected by an unspeakable pact, were emotionally joined by an extremely physical act.

I'll just leave what happened to the readers imagination...

Nevermind, we ******.