I mouth mother’s lullaby
to a skateboard.

my brother moans
into what he believes
was kept
from my sister.

we underdose
in a gutted place.

we take our foreheads
to women
like fevers
to god’s washcloth.

Four figure eights,
Only on the edge, never straight,
Slowly swimming into madness,
Calmly chaotic, never sedate.
Frantic fingers, fumbling for a fix,
For without it, we're ever anxious

I’ve been starving since I was fourteen.
Please just let me scream.
Rusting like a machine,
Oil is hard to swallow.

I’m tired of passing out on the floor.
An underdose, lying by the door.
An absence in my core,
A gag when I try to fix it.

Putting on shirts, worried about how wide they make me seem.
Too self-conscious to wear something tight around the seams.
Pretending my future is only a dream,
I’m becoming dusty on the internal.

Withering away, I feel my soul leaving.
Blowing with the wind, I am still grieving.
I’m more used to the sound of heaving,
Than the sound of myself eating.