bones that show.
scars out proud.
ulcerated stomach.
a slow heart.

I’ve flipped dead channels:
distraction hides the hunger.
but there’s no way to **** this enemy
or keep from going under.

perfection
is Kate Moss,
and ****** chic.
circles under vacant eyes,
thirsting yet asleep.

those vacant eyes aren’t empty.
they’re scared.
and hurt.
who told us we’d be beautiful,
under six feet of dirt?

for all those loved and lost to this:
perfection is the poem "fat,"
and fighting,
hard.