i come home to it

i tell myself pounds will shed like
water:
clear,
smooth,
painless.

no such luck.

i tell myself the scars will come out
pretty:
straight,
silver,
painless.

no such luck.

the shedding of so much self
is like a death,
or grieving for a death:
messy,
spiralling,
non-linear,
and painful.

so too the scars
and burns:
with time they bump
and mound,
grow jagged,
and distort,
monsters grown from wounds
that gaped like mouths
to scream out
"pain"
then sealed themselves in silence
because I could not speak
before or
after.

after.

how often i hoped for the end of
after.

but no such luck.

bones that show.
scars out proud.
ulcerated stomach.
a slow heart.

I’ve flipped dead channels:
distraction hides the hunger.
but there’s no way to **** this enemy
or keep from going under.

perfection
is Kate Moss,
and ****** chic.
circles under vacant eyes,
thirsting yet asleep.

those vacant eyes aren’t empty.
they’re scared.
and hurt.
who told us we’d be beautiful,
under six feet of dirt?

for all those loved and lost to this:
perfection is the poem "fat,"
and fighting,
hard.