How would it feel
if
I confessed to you
that
I starve myself?
Would you feel threatened
if I said I did it for you?
Or would you feel the
slightest bit trapped?
What if I had an
innocent excuse?
That the only reason why
I prefer to diet
until my stomach
compresses,
and flattens out
every single
abhorrent pound of
flesh that
rots with
self-hatred,
that the meaning underneath
me
starving
until my ribs are kicking to
break through my skin,
is simply to
strip off the barrier between
you and
my skeleton.
skin thinning until
transparency,
conspicuously unmasking to you
how every raw bone of mine,
the ones that bend
in every motion
that you admire (or lust)
for,
really feel you from within.
Look closely and see
how my blood is thicker
than my skin itself,
with dense,
powerfully amorous chemicals
that you injected in me,
running through its stream.
let me starve.
I'll be keeping my
appetite,
sustaining the hunger
for your pleasantly
possessing
presence.