Lily On Instagram
Fragile Lily, tonight you tell me
you're hospitalized for the third, fourth time;
how your nights are blacker than treacle -
viscous dark, thick between stars -
stickier than your latest pastel-candy binge.
How your days are bleached bleak, whiter than bones.
They're drip-drip-dripping a sticky sap
of nutrients in the thin stamen of your arm.
Adrift, you drift through patisserie cosmos:
your buttery croissant crescent moons,
your spice-sprinkled lebkuchen stars -
sickly celestial bodies that float
in glutinous dark.
The dull-dun walls are splattered with food porn -
a sticky display, a syrupy splay
that says: come-and-get-me;
taste, savour, consume.
Though later the guilt-purge
will have you corner-pinned in a darkened room
with the tap's cold drip and a stench of sick.
You're watching TV to keep the evenings tear-free
(Great British Bake Off - they made a frangipane tart).
Your hunger is art;
mine's a sticky, sordid mess:
strawberry sink-slops, a sugar-pink drink
swilled then spat, to taste-grasp the sweetness I crave.
They call you My Sweet.
In their clamour for glamour
the voices grow more shrill still
and they're dotty for your dotted
Stella McCartney skinny jeans.
Your legs are style-spindly, but your style is envied.
Your this-way that-way poise and pose,
lips slick with Sugar Rose.
The shoulder scorch of a tattooed rose.
Hunger charcoals your face; your flimsy grace -
an angular bone-drape of clothes.
Thin-framed flashes of you,
moments shared in each lit square;
your life a frail flare, your skin petal-pale.
With frail flair you shake off the starving stigma,
the jittery calories, like shaking pollen from a stigma.
Oh, to grow into thin skins
easy and natural as flowers.
The hours are lean and gleam like bones.
I press hearts, :) at you, give cyber hugs,
smiling sisterly support, saying stay strong -
though I'm lily-fragile, just like you.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot