Pastries are love, but not the kind
I can wrap around myself,
When I need the warmth of
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.