and i, 

in shivers, as everything is too unfeeling, 

oh me, gazing upon myself through a broken kaleidoscope-y lens, looking down at me, from within

what are you? where you were and what you are? 

thigh gaps, collarbones, thin fingers, is that really all there is to me, all that you see, you, creature 

oh i, how may you make me wince and starve myself till dawn, when a burn of a bile makes me fearful, yet satisfied, 

i am one meal closer to dying, remaining in denial

preferably illness, over bliss, suppose do i, oh me

whispering into my own ear, behold

of the perfection, be irreproachable in every way there is, 

why? i asked 

to make up for it, to make up for the fact that it’s me, supposing you, meaning both of us 

the scale as penalty, walking up to a burning pedestal every morning, evening and night, measuring myself to assert myself, and show the graphics to the creature

is this enough? 

no, never, 

i won’t eat tomorrow, won’t eat anything. i will set a reminder to myself, to not eat. at all. i do not deserve, how foolish of me to think of myself as something humane when i am not even remotely close to what i need to see as me, in the mirror

oh me

as i am fast asleep, every night, someone, It, crawls into my bed and decomposes me, disassembling particles of myself that are vivid, or not so perhaps, and hurriedly puts it back together before i wake up. 

this is all theatre. a carefully constructed facade of a blemish of control, crumbling down at me, as i desperately attempt to pick up the pieces and put them back together, 

the knowledge is too much to forget. for then, i have to live with it, and everything that comes to it, 

and no longer a poet, or a muse

simply spoken, an inoperable tumor, broken shelf

septum leftovers and gold jewelry, crushed cigarettes, 

one and done and fast, repeat 

they can’t see,