The Proverbial Bulimic

To purge the self out of myself-- split freckles and spit teeth, pluck away at envy colored irises in submission, permitting ink to pour from their shallow sockets like Aquarius in a star-fufilling stigmata glorified by sooth sayers: to string up my forever and never ever words in the gallows between ribcage and leathery scar tissue to-be-- would be to become, in an anti-phoenix manner, brutally alive, connivingly able to stretch my reach over so much more than the narrow spaces allotted by chapped and parting lips, and what they exhale; a sigh of monotony unnoticed again. And I wonder: Knowing the space-time coordinates when prison-poisoned needles will perforate the body and whisper in promises of escape must be a comfort.