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.