In pursuit of a perfect body

By | 15 February 2023

I wish I weren’t a dying anorexic.
Starving all the damn time even with
A dish of roasted pig. There are no hacks
To being thin. Just chewing on peach pith.

My bones have leeched their calcium, soft and bent
“Have more roast pig.” I stare down at its feet.
When they try hard to draw my blood, they can’t
My body is slow-dying. “Can’t you eat?”

Too late. At lunch, I taste, like blood, some grim
strawberry bits; and help myself to cake.
I knife through hot potato skin,
a paper thin brown skin; and then it’s like
my heart has seamed slit open through its doubt,
so softly steaming bits of its life out.

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