The Starving Part

It aches, the starving part.

Unthink the practised gossamer waif,

curled inward into balanced bone.

It is a swollen, jaundiced curse,

broad and malignant,

slipping sweetly through the vein

to settle in addiction.

The arrhythmia of nearly

but not never quite, still

too round thick, spilling everywhere.

Feed it, the starving.

Stuff it to bursting

with scales and counting,

fuller and fuller until the purge

and you are perfect.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s