wordplayground

disconnected
can't stop moving and shaking
can't sleep or can't
stay awake,
carrying around dead weight
on the back of my legs
and inside my spine
wishing i could scrape it
off and out, and i can feel
a feeling of discomforting
painful nothingness
inside my spine,
which might be
disconnected

i'm tired of the abuse and
neglect and casual disregard
for everything i say.
i'm sick of diet sodas and
soy milk mixed with god-knows-
what and most of all
nicotine to shut me up when
i'm hungry and hurting. i've 
had it with the classic coca
colas when there's nothing else
available and the expired
freegan pastries when you're
too lazy or poor or cheap
for anything else. these
once-a-day nutritional meals
aren't cutting it for me, and 
i don't care 
if it's filtered or fruit-
flavored tap spring or mineral
water but something would be 
nice i'm working with
what we can but i'm floating 
with this constant flow of
carbonation.

at first glance
i knew she was the most beautiful girl in the world
but she kept walking
and through the bagginess of her burgundy t-shirt
i saw every seam of the training bra
as it clung to her skin

my second thought about this - the most beautiful girl in the world
is that she's dying
i wonder if she knows
then i wonder if people looked at me and thought the same things - 
not the most beautiful,
but the part about dying

would they have told me? and
should i be telling her
that to be perfect, she'll have to die?
but she's gone already
perhaps she just died.

i'm left alone, studying the way my new pen leaves ink on the page
i liked the pen i had to replace better
the way i liked the body i replaced better
but it too would have died
i'd rather one that leaves too much ink on the page

i was ideal at one hundred pounds.
perfect at seventy-nine.
now i am so much more
and i hate it.
yes, i once had an eating disorder.
once, twice, three times –
(who counts these things)
i would rather count
the pounds, the repetitions,
the units of energy.
but here i am, recovered.
trying to help others –
but how can i save them, 
knowing how i hate
my own salvation.
i spent so many days
knowing
it would be better to die
at seventy-nine pounds
than to ever be this.

and these numbers –
how can i ever keep up?

i find my own words cycling through my head:
ridiculous,
disgusting,
pathetic.
yes, this time those were my words.
what can i do with them?
echo those words,
so i can shove them down someone else's throat,
live vicariously through how they feel about my words.
but those were my words,
what will be left of me when i've so easily given them away?

health is only a vague memory
can't sleep, wide awake for five days now
even when i want to eat i don't remember to
i shouldn't be allowed out like this
my self has gone away, a machine is driving my car
lights, cars, streets, signals
this machine has a delayed reaction
focus damn it, those are people in the other cars, not machines
can't hurt the people
this crazy machine is outofcontrol
i watch from a distance
i remember the time when it was me, not a machine in that body
now i only have this machine that doesn't sleep or eat
health is only a vague memory of myself