X-rays always made her feel like a model, The doctor always taking her pictures. She always posed. Every imperfection, every flaw in her porcelain skin, They refused to overlook. They had to inspect her, Make sure she wasn’t contagious. “Drink this, eat that, take these. Let us shove tubing down your throat So we can find you another pill” And she was absolutely sick and tired Of all of the rules and tubes and wires And people she didn’t know touching all over her, Making her feel “Better” It made her feel exposed. Cold. Like she was some ******* bunny for a physical health magazine. Her nostrils were stained with The strong scent of hand sanitizer. And she couldn’t keep the hospital food down, And the shower was always freezing cold… But at least they could make her feel “Better” Erasing the taste of Copper anorexia at the back of her throat, She’s just an experiment.
The knot in my stomach is far too easy to tie, I don’t know if it’s because I’ve grown overly-sensitive, Or if I’ve become so harshly allergic to my feelings, But anything is enough to bring me to my knees, A string of words laced in specific pattern, Or a series of music notes arranged just so, They bring back my past, Loss, and abuse grief, and anger, They bring back words meant to knock me down, And hits meant to ****. Every time it’s the same, The same ache coursing through my veins, The same jerky shake of my hands, The same way I recoil from my own body in disgust.