alternative title: I wish I could tear the flesh away from my ribs like pages of a book
lately, I feel limited in my body / a bad place for someone whose being is bound enough / a bad place for someone with the universe in their ribs and galaxy-painted fingernails
all that I consume scalds my abdomen like corrosive acid / it bleeds over my larynx like pouring sugary milk in delicate glass
I hate how ghastly food tastes on my lips / somewhat reminds me of my last relationship / savory inside me / destructive against sore, red cheeks
so I paint it on dull bathroom tiles with splatters of color / feeling my insides contracting the way I want
molding flesh finds itself homebound in a home it does not belong / etching scratches of meat on bark and bones / it trickles down me like peach syrup travelling on dainty ghost hands
I'm not saying I have an eating disorder / or that I like the inviting echo of emptiness in my shrinking stomach pouches / or that I spend hours in front of a mirror pulling flabby skin apart like peas in my mother's food (I hate peas) / or that I find unspoken solace in the dwindling flab on my thighs
perhaps the ease of growing into utterly nothing / isn't good for me / but it's familiar
writing poetry while listening to hozier is truly an experience. I recommend it to everyone tbh.
