Padding Myself In Metaphors

At three in the morning I shovel a gallon of chocolate-covered sorrow into my face In total darkness To keep from catching a glance of my shadow on my bedroom's walls. My hand-- a momma bird throwing up into my baby beak. A sort of sick nurture That's thick, salty, and sweet. I am young and violated. I want no one to love me And so I love myself. Excuses! I'm a broken violin; Played so much that I now shriek that old frayed tune. You hate my song. Don't blame your ears; It may be my strings. My pot belly? My anxiety My vanishing neck? My fear of failure My swollen face? My fear of success I'm covered in bubble wrap. Drop me, and I bounce off the floor. I deny it. Truth is, I kind of like it this way.