To Bare My Bones
Sometimes I visit pro-anoretic
things
Out of curiosity
Out of concern
A desire to relate?
A strange urge to study the
sick.
Am I one of them?
But every time
The more thinspiration
Self-motivation
And self-hatred that I see,
The hungrier I get
The more I feel my waist
The more I notice the softness
of my flesh
The pleasant give of my arms
The rolling contrast of my
proportions
The more I regard “squish”
With fondness.
And when I feel bone
Jut through a pillow of body
I regard it with distaste,
As I would a jagged corner
Jutting through a bedroom
pillow,
This interruption of that which
is
Soft and warm and comforting.
I care little about what look is
yielded
By something so thoroughly
nice to feel,
Whose presence exists to be
touched.
And to delve into boneculture,
A figure so opposite as to repel
everything,
To repel food is to repel touch
To repel human contact
The basis of humanity
To become inhuman untainted
by other humans,
Is repellant to me.
Though it is to be said
That I am able to revel in being
human,
To have power in my human
needs
Without need to have power
over them.
As such
I see my ribs, I feel sick
I wish to cover them
They interrupt my humanness,
To bare my skeleton is to walk
dead.
I cover them
With muscle, with enough
Adipose for a nice give,
Whatever I determine that to be,
Because I am alive
And crave contact
And am human
And those things are beautiful.
Copyright © Nic Mit | Year Posted 2013
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