I starve.... a poemy, by me!

I'm sick of silence.
Hunger. Overwhelming and
tragic.
Alone.
Quiet subliminal messages for temptation
and reminders of
why I must strip this body
down to skin and bone.
Finger nails bitten,
callouses picked,
cuticles bloody,
hands swollen and trembling,
insides in knots--
--the physical symptoms of the shock
of this internal war I have.
This slow and steady scrub brush taken
to my soul
in hopes of getting
clean.
Purification.
Every morsel another scar on my soul.
Every calorie another smear of mud on my mind.
Every ounce of fat
another outward symbol of my sin.
I starve to be as frail as I feel
somewhere within.
I starve to be as delicate,
as damaged,
on the outside,
as my heart both symbolically and literally is.
I deprive myself in hopes of one day
turning to ashes and dust at a gust of wind--
--of floating away like fake snowflakes in a summer breeze.
Of crumbling under the pressure
from both outside and in.
I starve because the weight of the world on my shoulders
is heavy enough
without the weight of the fat in me.
Because maybe when I'm tiny enough,
when all the padding and muffling flesh
has faded,
people will hear the sound of my screams.

Because I'm praying someone will see me shattering,
and breathe a touch of life back into me.

I starve in hopes of finding salvation
Of one day...
Of one day making myself clean.

~~~~

Aaaand another bad poem, by me.
The end.