anorexia is a rabid dog (4/6/21)
it’s not your fault. it shouldn’t have ended up like this, us,
going from a steady sway of harmful fun to
finding your dance partner is the devil, you,
foaming at the mouth, craving more.
i miss my baby. i’m leashed to a beast.
maybe i should have given you
a second chance. a third. i need you
to cool the fires of passionate warmth. who will i
go on walks with to see the stars? who will teach me
to drink pools, basins, with that unceasing, resourceful,
curving tongue, stifling the air with racing drips and
patterned peals in a way that says
listen,
can someone please listen?
i gulp gallons of reservoirs in a method that makes tides sink,
and fish plummet, and nothing more.
you shouldn’t have to die like this, i think, even though
you refuse to enter the kitchen. you sit under the tree’s
faulty knees, delirious. even the days of circular frenzy
seem to have passed. dying isn’t
fun anymore: no last hurrah, or pizzazz from the
exploding car catapulting off the aqueduct.
even as my finger pads pulse on smooth trigger
i cry, beast days swarming in droves,
teeth toppling ankles to broken bone.
hesitate. the leaves around you look like new puppies, eternal,
pickled in a jar of pillows.