Safety in bones
splintery and barbed,
cutting away the fear of flesh
as Persephone sleeps eternally.

Knees ache and bruise during restless slumber,
one on top of the other,
from running this eternal marathon
of illusive perfection.

Recklessly chasing rainbows
conceived out of the
blind imagination of the masses.
Hunger pains mistaken for redemption,
skeletons misconstrued as a life
well lived.

Freedom and courage are found
in deadly comments from innocent mouths:
“Are you eating enough?”
“You are so skinny!”
“Are you sick?”

Yes.

I am sick.

A slow, tedious sickness of my soul.
Not wanting to live with the flesh
of my past,
not knowing how to maneuver the
burdensome flesh
of my present,
while obsessively worrying over the flesh
of my future.

As I slowly **** the only self I know,
(or don’t know),
and replace her with a mask of self possession,
I unearth an exquisite relief from the dread of
never being loved because I am
too much.

In my twisted perception,
that is true death.
This is only dying….