drink of the devil
lemon juice and cayenne pepper
poured into a shot glass
take it in one swallow
and feel it singe your throat
every morning
I make the same iced black coffee
and drink it in tiny little sips
gag down the drink
or gag up the food
it’s my choice
I know it’s not pleasant
but I’m addicted to being called pretty
to being called perfect
I’ll do anything to make you love me
I can go one more day
if it means another stranger will stop
to call me lovely
insults and compliments
they’re all the same
“gorgeous” means it is worth it
“sick” means it is working
my ego sounds massive
but my self esteem is low
I deserve to feel beautiful
because hell knows I work for it
I like the toxic poison I ingest
the white powder in my water
I want to be smaller
to take up less space
in others’ lives
I hate the way I speak
I have self awareness
and I know how I sound
I’m sending us back thirty years
but I want to be worse
I want to say more
I want to romanticize illness
so I will
-
I have perfect control
over everything around me
white sterile bones
as light as a feather
measuring tape becomes ribbon
to tie little bows in my hair
I’m only a girl
water as cold as snow or ice
grows angel wings on my back
and a plastic scale
to measure my success
and no matter how difficult
my university classes become,
or how loud my home gets,
or how much she yells and screams,
or how many times I say no and am ignored,
or how often I fail when I try my best,
or how many assignments I do poorly on,
or how bad my chronic illness gets,
or how hard I’m pushed to the ground and assaulted,
or how many tears I cry,
this I have control over
this I have control over
this I have control over
THIS I HAVE CONTROL OVER.
-
I lost control
I am a fucking hurricane
sweeping through this home
I devoured it all
with no hesitation
everything is gone
I went to the grocery store
two miles away
and spent every cent I had
on momentary bliss
then life shattering destruction
I gorged until I puked on the floor
then I did it again
then again
then again
every time my body convulsed on the ground
it only made room for more to be shoved inside
fistfuls upon fistfuls
consuming the very air in the room
sprawled and gasping
fish out of water
repulsive
I go again and again
beat me into a pulp or bury me
it would hurt less than this
I cry into my cake
I wish I could crawl inside
and eat myself to death
or open my bag of chips
to find a gun
and shoot this pig on the tile floor
right through the temple
-
but tomorrow
tomorrow I’ll have control again
- Author: anemoia ( Offline)
- Published: September 30th, 2024 00:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
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