i.

do you ever think
that maybe the sun
gets sick

of smiling
down at strangers
in an audience

that
never
even
bothers
to look
up?

and yet still, each morning
the spectacle continues to rise

shining, singing
to deaf ears
blind minds—

silent applause.

ii.

i feel the wind's breath
creeping up my spine
and can't help but wonder

if maybe the only reason
he whistles is to be heard.

maybe
the wind is just as lonely
as the next passer-by

he tries to hug
but gets lost in translation:

soft skin kisses
transform into blows

this power
he cannot control—

he calls it
love.

but others only ever see
destruction.

and maybe now they
both mean the same thing anyway.


iii.

perhaps trees
only sway
as an attempt

to unchain themselves
from the roots that
shackle them to the ground

confined by the soil
that anchors them
to a cage

they're convinced
is called

"home."

they say
every tree
has a story to be told:

the squirrel
who hollowed out its heart

and made a life out of
the rotting rings inside;

dead voices
carved into peeling skin

arms outstretched
only ever greeted by air

and the occasional bird
that comes to sit
on a broken-***** bridge
that once led to somewhere.

it's true.

every tree
does have a story
to be told

and if a tree falls in a forest
and someone is around to hear it,
it does make a sound.

but the real question

is would anyone
be listening
anyway?

iv.**

i think
in a way

humans
can be a lot like nature too.

There is no
"blurred line"

just a clear cut
crime scene tape

with the warning
"DO NOT CROSS"

stamped all over it.

You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”
but I say surely something

must taste nicer than the burning acid
being forced back up your throat.

Why not hug people instead of
toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back.

Except Mia is your only friend now.
And her cousin, Ana, of course.

And I understand that you never
wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck

hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and
Ana took the wheel a long time ago.

There is no strength in this: in you, in a
fear of calories. Even your bones creak

as your muscles sigh with exhaustion -
for this, is not a war you're winning.

This is a battle with only one contender
and I will not be the one to disarm you.

That's your job and it always has been. I know
you only wanted to be beautiful

like all those stars in the magazines
you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’

but the only stars you ever saw were in
your eyes from the dizziness

and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty.
For there is nothing “pretty”

about the layer of fuzz your body grew
to protect itself from the big bad wolf

when really, the only growl was coming
from inside your stomach.

Or how your little sister is afraid to touch,
let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two.

For there is no glamour in having to
remove clumps of hair out of the plughole

at least six times whilst having a shower,
just to let the water run down.

Or that one time you "accidentally”
took too many laxatives. Messy.

There is nothing admirable about the way
you sat shivering on your bed

at night instead of kissing boys,
or dancing, or eating ice cream.

There is nothing to be marvelled at
in dying.

This, is not a life to be lived.
God, this isn't even a life.

This is being a slave to your own body,

a walking zombie, a ghost stuck
between two sides.

You are not alive.

But it was all still worth it, right?
Slowly killing yourself from the inside out.

A small price to pay for perfection,
a bargain for a broken mirror;

for a half-written book
with 97 blank pages,

a camera
that only captures in black and white,

a clock
with frozen hands.

And most importantly, for a peace of mind
you never received.

No refunds.