Her Secret Skeleton - A Morning Muse

 

Ecstatic with emaciation; 

Anorexia’s elation - 

A mental suicide at Borough Station. 

Starvation, 

The causation.  

Dank air propels me 

From my reverie 

As I arrive in southwest London, 

After dumping a 13-year conundrum  

Upon a recent but forever friend; 

Sent by the stars to allow my split soul to mend. 

Sitting at the Rookery 

With a broken brain, 

My entire conscience feels the stain 

Of a secret skeleton, 

Whilst others converse over the covert at Peckham’s Pelican. 

Reeds of green whisper  

In Wednesday’s breeze - 

Singing a peaceful melody 

With the transitory honeybees. 

Inside, my skeleton reminds me of an underlying ill-ease, 

Yet to appease.  

 Winter red berries hide within an emerald empire, 

And whilst I tire, 

They burn as though worlds on fire. 

The voice calls me a liar. 

Lying to myself that everything is fine, 

As though subdued in ponds of bold red wine - 

Where Moorhens consider me as they dine  

In the sublime  

Solitude of society; 

On fine 

Fragments  

Of fish. 

Anorexia’s isolating wish. 

The moorhen mocks me, 

And the voice confirms my bestiality.  

Blisters on my back and arm 

Are punishment for rejecting the psalm  

In favour of the absurd. 

The peep from a blasé bird 

Echoes in the ephemerality of my existence - 

Depleting in its perseverance 

To survive; 

To thrive; 

To just be ... 

 Alive.  

 Hot water bottle burns scream in the shower, 

Just before Anorexia calls me to devour 

Nothing - 

Insisting on puking 

Whilst my heart holds onto a fraying shoestring, 

Forcing my brain into a boxing ring 

Far from the logic of anything. 

 For a moment I feel like a King - 

Suppressing my internal Queen, Anorexia, 

Who only speaks in public after a pint of beer. 

She brings a female-fantasy fear, 

For which my inner King will shed a tear 

And hide in my psychological home, 

Unable to muse or meaningfully roam. 

When life changes and all is well,  

It is hard to decipher and even tell, 

Why the black abyss continues to ring my doorbell - 

Drawing me in as to remind me how I should feel, 

And how I should conceal 

That I am extremely sick, 

And life might be destined to be quick. 

My memory fades  

And I can feel her stabbing my brain with polished blades, 

In the pursuit to be perfect. 

I am her project-  

But not yet fully wrecked.  

There is always hope

Upon my (not Anorexia's) tight-rope.