The Proverbial Bulimic
To purge the self out
of myself--
split freckles and spit teeth,
pluck away at envy colored irises
in submission, permitting ink to pour from
their shallow sockets
like Aquarius
in a star-fufilling stigmata glorified
by sooth sayers:
to string up my forever
and never ever words
in the gallows between ribcage
and leathery scar tissue to-be--
would be to become, in an anti-phoenix manner, brutally
alive, connivingly able
to stretch my reach over so much more
than the narrow spaces allotted by
chapped and parting lips, and what
they exhale; a sigh of monotony unnoticed
again. And I wonder:
Knowing the space-time coordinates when prison-poisoned needles
will perforate the body and whisper in
promises of escape
must be a comfort.
Copyright © Jenna-Nichole Conrad | Year Posted 2012
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