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.