my body is not an act of contrition
it’s not a performance I put on to pay penance to those who must look at me;
this is not a transaction,
my effort at some standard of beauty
for your regard
I will not apologize for your attention,
or arrange myself to make your looking at me a pleasant experience
I will not suffocate,
agree to the expense,
or bow to the impracticality of it all;
I will not mold myself to earn your recognition
my body is not an act of contrition
I crave the soaring fly,
the savory-sweet dopamine high,
the trojan-horsed famine to feast,
fist to mouth feeding this homeless core,
my shattered beast,
desperate to numb its bitter and cold,
but its icy fingers won’t release their deadly hold
I yearn for the rolls and folds to soften the deadly blows,
for this insulation to thicken and enclose,
for this savage internal verse to shift,
becoming honeyed prose,
but the strikes never slow, never soften;
at this rate, this oversized shell will be my coffin
I hunger for the serene, obsidian quiet,
for the release of this crippling riot,
for the free fall into the sweet, thoughtless void,
but it’s unreliant;
it’s all razor-edged neon, blinking, non-compliant
in it,
there’s only me,
myself,
and I,
all hiding behind the insatiable high,
this corpulent encasement a cage for the silver-tongued blows;
I am gluttonous shame,
a faceless name I don’t quite know
-image via Plusmommy.com
in so many crevices,
in drawers and cabinets and waste paper baskets,
buried,
beneath, beneath,
lies wrappered shrapnel,
hidden,
yet, gnawing, gnawing,
from the inside out,
a silvery, crinkled breadcrumb graveyard of words,
unspoken,
a secret swallow for every sinful syllable,
a cloaked choke on every vile vowel,
gnarled nouns stuck somewhere between my stomach and my mouth,
and there’s just no relief
sneaking behind closed doors and around corners,
furiously famished,
I binge and cringe on chocolate barbs,
on sacks of salty sinew,
slicing and chewing at the operatic clash,
at the rising, rising of the pitiful loathe,
a boiling bile in the pit of my being
a flood,
unuttered,
yet, refusing to be unheard
-image via Pinterest, by artist Lee Price
Standing at the kitchen counter, she stared at the bag of Doritos. She’d promised herself she’d treat herself well, energizing her body with fuel that truly made her feel good, inside and out. She knew how, she’d done it before; she’d lost 80 pounds naturally, with will, and sweat, and tears, and finding what worked for her, over and again, through every misstep and plateau.
Yet, here she was, staring at the open bag of Doritos, sliding in her hand, promising herself she’d eat just a few.
Oh, wow. I forgot how good these are. A few more won’t hurt, I deserve them.
That few allowed a few more, and a few more, until the rest of the bag was gone.
It was so easy, even now, after all that hard work, for her to squash that reasonable voice which begged her to stop, that reminded her how awful she’d feel after. And she knew that awful feeling! She’d stared at the bottom of dozens of Dorito bags in the time before. She’d rationalized that voice away hundreds and thousands of times, allowing fear and stress to twist her thoughts ass-backward and tell her she deserved to eat yummy things, to be rewarded for her hard work and effort, and not feel deprived. She’d felt that all too brief euphoria after the indulgences, stuffing that rational voice to the pit of her gut under all that junk. She’d stuffed it away until the scale read 260.
It had been been an endless cycle of stuffing feelings, feeding them with food, and feeling guilt and shame. It would be now, too, if she let it.
Staring at the empty bag, she was sure her shame would more than fill it. It grew and grew, until it took up all the space in the room, permeating her pores, infiltrating her gut to a wretching level. Tears dripped down her cheeks and onto the bag….crack, crack, crack. She winced at each crack, the sound a tangible reminder of her weakness.
Wiping away the tears, she walked the six steps to the bathroom. She glared at herself in the mirror. For a moment, she contemplated sticking her fingers down her throat, purging and purging until all that molten shame was out, flushable.
That’s too easy. I have to live with the consequences, that’s what I deserve.
Again, tears came, trickling down her cheeks, dripping from her jawline into the sink, although she paid them no attention.
Oh, God. How did I get here again?
“Help me,” she whispered, to no one, the no one looking back at her.
-image found on Pinterest, source unknown; this is a fictional piece based on real life
Heart Breathings 