Allison Kinzy | + Follow Poet |
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Disorder

Skin pulled tight over gaunt faces,
hollow eyes looking out at me,
fearful of what they see,
dreading pity,
empathy,
apathy,
wanting form me
only an ear,
an ear i’ve given  too many times
from those too many times
so tired is this ear
that it closes up, away
from the mention of
skin pulled tight over gaunt faces,
ribs seen from under sweatshirts,
appetites dead and gone.
Dead and gone
i tell these hollow eyes
yet they just blink as rivers of
blood and acid
flow with their tears
Years and years of tears
have fled down their cheeks
leaving no trace but yellowing nails,
crumbling throats,
and skin pulled tight over gaunt faces.
Losing them is hard to bear
so i clutch at the claws left of their hands,
feed them the weight of my words,
anything to keep them
on this side of the cliff.
Jumping now,
starving now,
purging now
seems to be their only option
if their mother hadn’t said that,
if their father hadn’t thrown that,
if they hadn’t meant to say that,
if they didn’t look like that.
But they did.
And they do.
So they go through and through
this pain until me and you
see only
skin pulled tight over gaunt faces
and never a ghost of a smile on cracked lips,
from which once spilled
gems of words,
emeralds and diamonds,
ideas sparkling grandly 
– the words that fall now
hit the bottom of their empty stomachs
thudding hollowly,
hitting hardly
a nerve anymore
as they numbly wipe the bile from their mouths,
the bile i can taste sometimes
as it rises in my throat,
my own crumbling throat,
crumbling of too many consoling words,
too many patient denials,
too many reassurances that they are normal,
when normalcy
is the only thing i cannot seem to achieve.
As i wipe the bile from my mouth
that tastes strangely of bloody and acidic tears
my mind hears
the weak cries
of hollow eyes
and i wonder how i can speak,
how i can release my flood of words,
how i dare to question them
when my own arm is scarred
and my finger isn’t all that clean,
yet i open my mouth,
hoping comfort not pain
not bile,
not smoke
will fall
and not hit hardly
as i turn to 
skin pulled tight over gaunt faces,
hollow eyes looking out at me,
ribs seen from under sweatshirts,
yellowing nails,
crumbling throats,
never a ghost of a smile on cracked lips,
the claws left of hands,
appetites dead and gone.
Dead and gone.
And i know i’m too late.

Copyright © Allison Kinzy | Year Posted 2007

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