Full

Indulgence, gluttony, wild binges

can set the tone for a desolate day.

The simple act of eating- unholy in my mind.

Carbohydrates to be allocated, portions to be measured, sugars to be circumvented

as if my happy body is the subject of experiment and i am the chemist-

trying desperately to desist creating a monster.

Stoic physicians, my urging mother, my conscience.

Lectures in an ever-rising crescendo between my ears

on permanent repeat; Stuck behind old wax i hesitate to remove.

My lack of will power, my resistance to insulin, my self hatred

make mirroring the American standard of "woman" s l i p from my greedy fingertips-

A tiring struggle to mold myself into a sculpture i can bare.

Defeminizing hormone, falling hair, a body morphing from an hour glass to a pear.

A sickness masking whatever beauty i still retain-

I am left wondering, "what will be left as i age?"

Beneath the complexes- my only true creations-

Lies truth i cannot avoid:

there is a certain emptiness about feeling full-

it is oddly fulfilling to feel empty.