Two anxious women sit across the table from each other
interrupted by two dishes of food,
two glasses of water,
and six utensils resting on paper napkins.
One thinks to herself,
“Is this sickness?”
the other,
“I am the sickest.”
The sick picks up her fork and licks the tines,
preparing it for a bite that will never arrive in her mouth.
The sickest folds her arms across her chest
and pushes her dish away with her eyes
and they sit in silence
with loud eyes and trembling hands
willing their fear to disappear.

Today I woke up with holes in my hand,
the stigmata of a failed human
who tried to starve her way to divinity.

These hollows are heaven’s rejection letters
spelled out in limp flesh
and dried blood.

When my mouth begs for water,
these hands cannot scoop up a single drop
from life’s grand wells.
And anyway, my mouth was sewn up long ago.

I hold both hands outward, towards the light.
They do not warm, they only burn,
and anyway, I cannot see the light
through frosted eyes.

My fingers hang from their spreading base
and cannot find the strength to fold
along their stiff hinges.
And anyway, my skin tightens like ice.

All that remains is fractured bone
and sea-green veins
that spread like spider’s legs
strong on a broken loom.

I cannot create if I cannot breath,
the pen’s ink separates like stolen air
drawn through a sieve.

Creation breeds life, endless drops of life,
but I shut that door on myself
and it’s still jammed in its latch.

The oxygen around me hides in small corners
and speaks in a whisper,
“you do not tempt me.”

Blank pages read like foreign print
and speak in ancient tongues,
unheard and unread.

It is hard to accept the truth
that falling can be a good thing.
Like falling into a pitch-dark room
to look for the things you’ve lost.
Like falling between the page and the pen
to pause the expression of the inexpressible.
Like falling backwards into the sea
to leave an imprint on the floor.
Like falling from a climbing tree
to kiss the concrete.
Like falling in love with your own breath
to slow the onset of death.

I am living with eleven dead women--
rather, I am dead with eleven others
just like me.
Even the fat ones
are all snapped bone
and skin so thin you can see right through
to the blue veins.
Our skin, our veins, our bone
come from one mother,
monstrous and controlling.
We sit like puppets on strings
but at night we lie with death like animals.

They gave you a crown of thorns
when you asked for roses
and anyway, the Earth has gone on strike
and the sun only beats down on wise men
who tan like leather and see stars in the light.

They gave you vinegar
when you asked for wine
but vinegar cannot imitate grapes
and grapes do not grow
when the soil does not sit in God’s hands.

They gave you milk
when you asked for blood
but the milk sours like lemons left to rot
and anyway, milk cannot fill veins
or pump air like lungs.

They gave you fire
when you asked for ice
to cool the head in your head
from the monster who made a home inside
and planted a dying garden.

They gave you wood
when you asked for bone.
Don’t they know that wood rots undersea,
and your limbs are swimming in the sheets
they lay down for you on a silver bed.

They gave you air
when you asked for lungs,
so you heave with bugged-out eyes
and your blue veins drain out
of your callused hands.

They gave you food
when you asked for life.
Why don’t they understand that food turns your stomach round
like a thorned crown
positioned on its side.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are not meant to
paint me as weak.
I struggle with words,
struggle to be heard
But talking about it
is never absurd.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Have made me consider
if life should be brief.
But I felt selfish
for making that wish,
So instead I continue
to try to exist.

My scars my relief
My alternative belief
Are reminders of a time
when I couldn't release.
I may have outgrown it
May never have shown it
But this is my lief
and I promise to own it.

At Intake
I could never have imagined
The agony this journey had in store
For me
And me alone

At intake
I shook with anxiety
But took comfort in protruding bones
on both sides of my hips
At least

At intake
I was naive
I was unlike the other patients
I was so different
I'd never be them

At intake
I just didn't know
How much I would struggle
How much I would loose
What hideous things would come forth

They tell me I am disordered
That the disease skews my vision
But I can't help that what I see first hand
Rings more truth that expert opinions

A battle of logic
A reassessment of my past
Solid justifications?
Or am I with in the wrath?

Everyday I show up
After the privilege of sleeping at home
To partial hospitalization
A step down from residential
Now they feed my six meals a day
And my whole body resists
As I choke down my meal plan
And cry an internal song
Of repetitive stories
Terrified of my changing shape
Doubtful of their expertise
A frustration beyond myself
A secret plan to return
To my comfortable place
Where I starve into emotional regulation
A safe place to rest a weary, threatened head
How will I ever get better?

Today was pretend
My own display of good health
Treatment taught me stealth