Cold, maybe familiar--
the ivory faces
of the porcelain dolls
you played with
at your mother's feet,
in the days when she still fed you,
watched over you while you slept.
Is it comforting,
the ice-like tile
against your exposed skin?
Is it reminiscent of your childhood?
Symbolic of the china dolls that
scream perfection.
Bodies thinner than the pale flesh
of your wrists,
legs and arms like sticks.
Is that why you do this?
Retch until only the putrid
yellow acid remains?
Because of china dolls,
with their perfect, porcelain bodies,
ivory skin.
You empty your stomach
to emulate them?