what do i have to bear?
an impromptu regression
to the form i was when i couldn’t feed myself
now i wander on the fields
connecting roads to their familiar destinations
i don’t want to feed myself
the sustenance that enters is a formidable beast
a creature who desperately longs to hurt me
my stomach hungers for a substance that won’t dictate the afternoons i have.
passed out upon a feathery bed
hands clutched to my stomach
as it groans.
when will the nightingale wake me up from this nightmarish disorder?
as though he isn’t already dead on my windowpane
i forgot to feed everyone else in my unbridled purge
once my life ends will i figure out that
the storm can mirror the looks of your body
and it’s not you?
if i saw a glance of my reflection
in the same pool that Narcissus did
would i drown myself because of all the hatred i feel towards myself?
it’s not me in the photographs.
oh, nightingale where do you rest?