Ramblings of a Bulimic

Pastries are love, but not the kind

I can wrap around myself,

When I need the warmth of

Something real.

Wine is sweet, but only as long

As it lingers on the tip of my tongue,

Sending a buzz to my head.

My twisted figure is good

For a night’s lay in a drunken man’s arms.

But come morning,

I must shrink my waist to fit in,

Somewhere, where I’ll be

more than just a fuck.

 

Soda is easy, women shouldn’t be.

But I’m no woman, they say.

So I must make my gorge rise,

let the soda find rest

At the bottom of the toilet bowl.

A few more crisps, just another bite,

Riddled with guilt, I’m at it again.

My body protests such abuse,

But I must lose,

Till there is nothing left.

So I close within myself,

As I decay on the outside.

Tears and cramps and cries,

Till my heart gives up and dies.

One Comment Add yours

  1. El says:

    powerful words. So good to read.

    Like

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