I have attempted

to starve out the demons

but they simply succeeded

in starving me

I have seen my bones

not from X-rays

through my own skin

I have viewed each rib

I have felt the hallow space

where love used to go

and it has pounded

like a drum inside

I have listened

as the lion roar of self disgust

wooed the whimper of hunger

and won

I have heard the warnings

the foolishness of this

and finally instinct took over

I am not still so thin

I have done all these things

yet before you convinced me

I had never

seen my own beauty before

Eyes of cotton between blinks and

mind draped with dirty rag cloth made

of fraying edges.

My words are being siphoned

down a drain of debilitating fatigue

and creative exhaustion.

I’ve switched from fountain pen

to keyboard because my handwriting

makes me seem like a tenured

college professor.

I’ve considered dropping the effort

and picking up a book but

the words aren’t painting their

vivid pictures and I’d rather not waste

a good plot on when I’m semi-conscious

and completely brain dead.

My bed is cat-calling and wolf-whistling

every time I pace by the headboard

and I eye the velvety fleeces

with something close to lust.

Insomnia dangles me awkwardly in that

tiresome place between longing for sleep

and being invigorated by a stream

of half-formed thoughts and thoroughly

muddled contemplations.

As they tumble and riot for attention

in the prison of my skull every muscle

in my body is groaning with annoyance

and chanting in choral a cappella:

“Go to sleep, dumbass.”

Right this minute, my body, like a king size mattress crammed into a carrier bag is hurling abuse at me from every orifice.

It is telling me I am a wastrel, a dullard, a sac of secreted pus and a dim witted old faggot, a complete and total waste of space.

My body is not what it once was. My skin, once taut and smooth now sags in great folds that follow me about.

My musculature, once honed to perfect proportion now dangles from my skeleton, limp and powerless.

My heart, once a powerful engine that drove me to great physical achievement, now stutters and hesitates, kept in reluctant rhythm by my doctors prescribed medication.

My senses, once honed to a sharpness unrivalled in human development, now flicker like a light bulb worn to its final, meagre output.

I desperately cling to the fading memory of what I once was as I slowly trudge to my inevitable demise, hoping against the odds that by some miracle I might produce writing of some merit before finally sliding into oblivion.

There are places

under clothes

where I have

expanded, and I feel as if

I am suffocating

inside blankets of poly-cotton

and 2% spandex,

but I have never

not bulged,

not once in my life;

I don't know why you're suddenly

surprised by it.

You have scratched raw the skin

of our thighs, made bloody

holes in the surface

with my own

fingernails,

and I am tired of being

my enemy.

I dread the mirror more than you do.

I take you out,

I walk you up mountains

and endure the torture of

high-heeled shoes,

I dance for you when you

want me to,

it is my arms with which you

embrace

the ones you care for,

my lips that facilitated your

first real kiss but it was you

who fell in love.

It was me he laid his hands on

every evening.

It was I who grew short of

breath with his touch.

Maybe that is why

you cannot love me.

Love me. Love you. Regardless of the fact that you could lose a couple of pounds you are perfectly fine. If you think you aren't good enough, think again. You have a loving boyfriend that finds you irresistible and would do a number of things to you if he could. Never feel ashamed of yourself or of me. We are beautiful threw and threw. So love me. Love you.

You pay attention to me too much, stop being so hypersensitive, I'm just digesting some Doritos. Oh and don't worry about this little pudge around your tummy, everyone has that. Oh and please don't hurt me again, it was hard to fight off those germs from that old razor. Treat me right, even though your brain is telling you to die.

One day, the body said to the soul, "Do you love me?"

The soul sighed. "I suppose. But you could change in a few ways. You could be a tad thinner, you could be somewhat taller. Your nose could shrink and your eyes grow a bit bigger. If you did those things, I think I could truly love you."

"Oh no, that's all wrong," the body said, shaking its head sadly. "Love is not those things! Do you love somebody just for who they are on the outside?"

"No," said the soul.

"So why treat yourself that way?"

The soul nodded, and let the body continue.

"Instead of thinking what I could be," it said. "Think of what I am. I am yours. I dedicate my life to you. When everyone else is gone, you'll only have me. I watched you grow up, I watched you learn, I watched you change. I was there for all of that. I know you better than anyone else, dearest soul."

"This is true..." said the soul.

"No need to look sorry!" said the body. "All you must do now is take care of me."