Sometimes,
I look at women with skin stretched taut
Over thin muscles
And bird-wire bones.
I stare and I can’t help but think
Isn’t that lovely?

Sometimes,
I feel food solidify as nausea
Like a leaden guilt
Curdling in my pink gut.
It creeps up my throat and feels like a punch.
Isn’t that terrible?

Sometimes,
I feel poison roiling underneath my skin.
When punctured
It will snake into the air,
Away from my frail body and free of my mind.
Isn’t that insane?

Sometimes,
I feel trapped inside my own head,
A consciousness chained
By solid fear.
I want to claw it out so it can taste the sky.
Isn’t that beautiful?

Sometimes,
I tear at my skin with flimsy daggers.
The crimson cracks
Under my weak nails
And I wish that I was brave enough to bleed more.
Isn’t that sick?