To Bare My Bones

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.