When I discovered that weed could make you feel bad,
I couldn’t get enough
of the room blackening at its edges,
my eyes feeling so dry it hurt.
Stopping myself from binging
is like crossing the river styx,
like turning myself over to death.
My eating disorder is my Achilles shield,
and when it’s gone I have nothing left.
When I found out that fasting is supposed to cleanse you,
I couldn’t get enough
of the idea that punishing bad feelings
will make them finally shrink away.
It sparked fantasies
of putting a cigarette out on my thigh,
burning my skin worthy,
a reverie where I finally slit my wrists
and let the blood spill
like a bruise under skin.
When I die throw me in a black hole
so all information about me is purged.
Throw me in a dark pit
with the gravitation of my stomach,
and let me find myself again when I smoke.
I have no control, no self,
but I rediscover something about my mind
everytime I bring my fork to my lips;
When I discovered too much food could make you feel bad
I couldn’t get enough.