I am hungry.
Stomach rumbles, hands tremble,
Thin arms reach for something to sustain.
Blood sugar plummets, heart races...
Why do I allow myself this pain?
I re-enact past hurts on the stage
of my body
and slowly implode.
The curves of my life must serve to replace
The lack of those on narrow hips;
Though I have carried children, sung lullabies
(Such matronly tasks borne against a figure
much too slight and childlike for a woman)
Somehow I do not feel grown up.
Layers of billowy fabric say it best:
I may be almost anything but sexy,
As lingerie gapes and puckers
on small tired breasts.
I am about to disappear into myself
Or disappear altogether,
I push my plate away unfinished:
it is not what I wanted.
My aching heart could not be filled so easily.