Quirk

being ill
it's a media phenomenon
it's being rail thin, and gaunt
and sipping red bull through a straw.
it's exhausting yourself with glamour
dupioni and haute couture.
it's knowing that everything will fit
but pretending not to,
as you bask in your significance
where business is proof of adoration
and the fatigue is your reward.

it's thinking kate moss is fat.
smugly
with razor sharp ribs.
angles aside, the epitome of unearthly apartness,
your alleged autotrophy
channeling hepburn with a cigarette.

it's the illusion of having no earthly requirements,
but sheer tights and a monthly vogue.

so clear - if only
I'm sorry.

it's the desperate fight to hide
the unbearable weight of existence
tentatively avoiding floorboards and crowds -
and the humiliating need for nourishment

it's spending hours in a supermarket, to avoid human sight
have I the right to buy?
the incriminating evidence

the adulation drive
bonbons and chanel no 5
the daydream of a more restrained self.
in the morning, it begins
and disappears as lithely as it came

it would like to be a disappearing act
but got stuck with the relay --
running from one place to another, indecisive, like one between two lovers.
one jilted, for composure or gluttony - the vows are made
but they won't last. keep the other for when you get desperate.

Today I feel raucous
and to Mia I go.

it's the battle between you, food and human contact
the comforts for which you long, but reject:
I need you / I do not need you.

it's the indulgence of the hearty, whole and sweet
soft, like an embrace or old memory
taken down and quickly removed
with a shotglass of syrup of ipecac.
retribution - and as you catch your breath,
wondering if it was really worth it

and - in truth
it's being needy, but alone
perilous, but never saved
it's about looking your worst, and worse when nobody sees
the mortification when the desired response is found lacking.

it's simple reconditioning. lather, rinse, repeat.

it's a cry for help,
by denial of basic wants - because they are only wants
and you are never in need.

It's being too fat for sleep or a raincoat
about weeping at your own reflection
and genuinely believing you will not fit through the door.
it's telling everyone you've got a bug,
when, to be frank, you just want to lie in bed and feel your oesophagus rot.

it's dreaming of overnight surgery
for a gloriously clattering set of bones.
how many pounds is that?

it's losing faith in everything
healthcare, humanity
the drivel on the radio --
it says nothing to me about my life

what's the use in perfection?
I can't achieve it, or your 10-week plan
for 'normality'. it's just rehab,
humiliation
a constant cloud of failure,
fire and panic. I can't afford it,
pocket or esteem
for that matter, but I beg
will life ever be sane again?
will they ever understand?

it's not thinness
or trauma, or control,
the usual suspects.
it's quenching the emptiness
a melange and realising that,
despite your efforts,
that frantic search for the light,
you will never quite escape
from the shrieking child inside
the battle between id and superego
and that poor dog in between

the shame, the numbers, that hollowness - 
it never quite goes away
so until then

 - just hold it all in


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it's really not a shock that so many people misunderstand eating disorders. it's eating disorders awareness week (has been since monday) so this was one of this week's pieces. I've got some I'm happier with, including a couple of tunes, so I'll see what I can do with them. - tor