My eyes are not sunlit windows to my own self, rather dimmed and tinted blockades to never give you a full picture. They are not a colourful array of flowers, they are dull and wilting weeds.
My lungs cannot breathe in and smell the roses because they are laced with tar, and not enough oxygen from shallow breathing. They are restricted from fulfilling out their purpose so I can feel 'okay.'
My ears will not listen to the buzzing of bees and the gentle wind- they will, however, listen to the screams between them and confuse help with hate.
My tongue does not taste of honeysuckle and mint, but rather ash and dried blood from tasting my existence. It formulates words laced with too much sleep and too little self care.
My fingertips do not touch as if I am handling the daintiest of flower petals, instead they trace a gravestone between my ribs with a purpose. They tear at my own skin and hair, or at least try to.
Do not devalue my battleground of a body by comparing it to a garden
give us this day our daily
and forgive us our
as we forgive those who
starve themselves for perfection
and lead us not into
deliver us from
the mental ward
FOR THERE IS SO
BREAD IN THIS
HOUSE I CAN'T
TAKE IT ANYMORE
on mlk day i shut my eyes
and see scenes of
squishy white rolls and
pats of margarine
feeling in my stomach
i can't eat any
but here it is
in baskets and
my daily bread
made to sustain me
but turned into
a flour coated
my hope and skin
you can see me
smile and stand
straight and tall
but what you can't see
is this shouldn't be
my body at all
give us this day
our daily bread
and give us the strength
to chew meat instead
does it look the same?, i asked
she gave me that funny look she gets
whenever i say or do something a little dim
it's a mirror image for a reason, she said
in the mirror i see muscles, and strength
hips a little too wide and fleshy
but still muscular,
strength all the way down
but when i reflect on myself,
no mirror necessary
it is never the same
i don't feel as strong as i could
don't look as sharp and sturdy as i could
those fleshy sides, too soft
for a battle-hardened brain
and turbulent thoughts
i need angles, i need straight lines
but there's nothing straight about me
and that's half the problem
and the other half
is that i hate the softness that lingers
but everybody else loves it
and i don't want to be warm and
able to be cuddled
i want hard edges
and nimble, spindly fingers;
when i play my chords
i want my bones to tap the strings
and when sadness sheathes itself within me
i want eyes as dry
as my eczema-bitten hands
you probably didn't think it was a disaster
with the feeding tube stuffed down your nose,
but it's wednesday, december 27th
and i can't stop thinking about how you are choking on it.
I wanted to believe somehow, that you and your worsening body
would somehow sprout back to life
like the wilted rosemary plant in my kitchen i never stop watering
like maybe this disease you engineered from glass and food and measuring tapes
would remember what you were like before.
when you were a svelte image of a red sun,
tiptoeing through the hairs of broken tree branches
and i wanted to look through them to see you burning
because it made sense to me every time i had to close my eyes
that you were something of warmth and serenity and you were always there
and i was cold and hopeless, lying underneath you
begging for you, or something else to save me
and i still haven't apologized
about how i left you and your pile of dead skin
and how i didn’t even say goodbye
just wandered off, praying and expecting i’d get lost,
but i’ve either forgotten how
or i'm terrified my stutters won't form into words you could forgive.
I don't know which one is worse
I don't know if that's even the worst of it.
its wednesday, december 27th
and i'm thinking about how far you are from me.
and i’m still searching for you in the sky
but i can’t see anything past all the rain.
I’ve always been small.
Height-wise and generally, weight-wise, too.
But for some reason, it clicked in my head that I couldn’t be 110 anymore.
100 was one digit too many.
95 was 5 too heavy.
1000 was 800 too many for a day.
48 hours of emptiness wasn’t enough.
I’ve never been overweight or anywhere near. I’ve been at a lower weight my whole life.
Its never really been about losing weight but I can’t stop myself from making it become a goal.
I’m falling back into bad habits.
I’m wilting. Decaying.
your body is a temple,
they tell me,
but still I do not eat.
it is a temple which I do not pray to,
it is a temple where my insides pray for food,
where my mind prays to feel something,
so I feed it anything that will plant hedges in my mind,
to shadow the burning house that it has become,
so no one notices and calls for help,
even if only for a few minutes,
but I do not feed it anything which will allow my body to grow,
I have cut down all the trees,
even though oxygen is scarce,
there are factories pumping smoke throughout me,
pollution is heavy,
as heavy as my body feels most nights,
weighing down the earth,
and I am only noticing now,
how hard it has become to breathe.