Disrupting Comfortable Noise
Wrap This Around Your Metal Brains
Don’t sing along with her—
it upsets her, brings
her close friends into this.
And I’m only human, I think—
I was, or used to be anyway.
Not anymore. I stay awake,
hungry, not wanting
to eat food because
the girls and their dad have to.
I sneak down late, before sleep,
to rummage a bit—
only to be told not to eat
the food that is theirs.
I’ve adapted by losing weight.
With that came madness—
a sort of punishment.
I’m gorgeous and suffering
quietly so no one sees it,
reinforcing another solid,
popular mental illness,
by the way.
And this is my business,
my purpose: dull and witless.
Talking through this, I fear,
would scare a regular person.
I hate this.
I won’t talk to therapists.
Counseling’s out of the question.
I don’t have to pay anyone
for writing this. I don’t care.
Talking to people
I’m smarter than—
this way, one day,
when people come across this,
I’ll be the famous one.
(Posthumously.)
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