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Poem

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.

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