Like my previous poem Hunger, I wanted to write about struggles with ED relapse. A large amount of the ED struggle is characterised by an unquenchable, unattainable obsession with perfection, which leeches itself into my ability to write. I want to be able to write for me again, and worry less about the need to adhere to an impossible standard, so I’m going to try to do that. As a concluding note, please remember that no one should be expected to be constantly productive in a pandemic, and please be kind to yourself and your body as you would your friend. Take care ❧
That night was the hungriest night
The amber slashing across my face
The slurry churning under the wheel
The speckling shadows of the snow
A stalking madness I shrugged off as gut
❧
The windshield fogged and I cracked a window
Let the car take in a thirsted breath
Wilted green laid down to rest
Rested its head
Blanketed there
Buried, unaware of my passing
Or of my body lit up by the lights
Flashing glimpses and then flitting
❧
Tens of eyes were bright and orb-wide
Bordered the road
And in the boundary line
Of one second to the next
In weakness and cession when
The last-clung leaf finally fell
I wanted to believe it was a doppelgänger
That took hold of my hands
And tore the wheel from them
❧
And it rolled, slumped over
The rubied streaks from the flung
The caved crack in the tree body
The dent where the car kissed it
Wet, matted pelt, and the sickness of it
From the jolt, and the last time
The last time it would die
❧
I hung from the seatbelt
My skull cracked open with
The flesh of an orange
Watched the eyes slowly eat of it
The foul seeks out the sunless
The web of the windshield
The wax skin of the daughter
Bloodied gold on the forehead
Monks to an offering
Huddled round— hooded and bowed
The wet bag of my stomach
Pumping with fume
Brimming with plastic
I cut myself loose
Photo by João Pedro Freitas on Unsplash
