Poetry can hide or expose the writer. This is about my battle with an eating disorder. |
Dinner with the Devil Seated at the head table of quarreling demons, I serve myself a heaping plate of self-actuated misery. The bounty of my desolation layered, until—eyes wide, I can fill my stomach no more. Heavy and full, I excuse myself to level with the monster and barter for my release. I am chained to the wall of backward mirrors. I am shrouded in the garments of my own insecurities. He reviews my doctrine and sighs contemptuously He casts his eyes to the floor and stands with breath in my ear. The whisper is between us alone... “I am immersed in your pity by day. I watch you beg in the night for mercy. You are my eternal window of sorrow.” I kneel before the statue of nothing, my heart lay on a platter for all to devour. I slink back to my seat to serve the demons once more. They are grateful, and I am still hungry. |