“Bulimic Whispers”

You like food;

Sometimes you Dont.

And Sometimes you close

The door after a Meal

Hide, bent whole

Doubled over like a sack

Watching as it goes

Down the Bowl.

Its not food however

That youre throwing up

Its the little thing

That makes you think

And think and think

That to be Thin is your friend.

It sucks, though.

Like the gasping notion

Of every quotient

The kind of gastritis that

Shoots up to your head

Making you shiver thinking

Youve got Meningitis

Or God Forbid another trip

To the Doctor;

Where after another

round of Lucozade

Put another band aid

You`ll continue thinking

And thinking and thinking

That to be Thin

Is your Friend.

But stare again.

Into the bowl like some kind

Of Sibyl in a refrain

Into the swill into the water

Your throat burns to contain

Every single choking moment

Where you dont know how to explain;

How to say, How would I say

When the nerve takes you

And you know its wrong

But the ache breaks you

And you dont want another

Spoon, another plate

To say this is the the fear

Of being called out

For attention too late

But to expunge food from my throat

Like the words on my tongue

Hoping that each time I do so

it would stop the fire in my lungs

Like the crumbling castle

The disease built

In my head, thinking

Second guessing that

If you cant

Stop the bloating feeling

Round your thighs, legs,

Arms and hips and brain

Its equivalent to

Not getting that grade

Or not getting your play made;

Because its always

easier To poison yourself

In some kind of Quatrain

Where you dance and dance

and Think on and on

That youve always been to blame

If food is Life,

And Food stands for all

That I couldnt be then

And all I thought to Shame,

Then it never was about Size.

It never was about my Face.

It was about the thought

That maybe, if I were Perfect

I could be Replaced.