begging
an answer: Just
who (or what?)
drilled that well in the first place?
Kaeleigh
This Morning I Wake
Mired in confusion, an odd
sort of throb in my torso.
Hunger. The specter of my genie,
physically
haunting me. Stalking me.
Beneath my silk
pajama top, my empty
belly lies, flatter than ever. I
need
that binge, and something
more. Something to make me
feel necessary. Alive. This thing I
crave
(no, can’t) is new. Forbidden.
(No. Don’t.) What’s wrong
with me? I can’t believe I
want
this. Why me? Why now?
Why at all? My hand floats
across my curvelessness,
moves lower, to the need.
Who (or what?)
can I make believe is loving me?
Am I Sick?
My skin is hot. Fevered. Demanding
to be soothed. Touched. Satisfied.
Have I gone crazy? I have never, ever
done such a thing. Never unlocked
this private room inside of me. Never
ever wanted to take a look inside.
Am I possessed? Entered by a demon,
chained and padlocked, inside of myself?
I feel possessed, taken by some evil,
sick desire. Desire I can’t control.
What is wrong with me? I don’t want
this. Oh God. It can’t feel good.
But it does.
But it does.
It does.
It does.
Does.
Does.
Totally Humiliated
I go into the bathroom.
I’d like to take a hot bath,
but no time now. I’ll have
to settle for a shower.
The steamy cascade
streams over my body.
Sandalwood soap
lifts in a fragranced
fog, cleanses and
perfumes skin and air.
Nasty stickers of hair
defile me, the goddess
within. I reach for my
razor, triple bladed
and critically sharp.
I’ve shaved my legs for
years, know to be careful,
yet suddenly I don’t
give a fuck and push
hard. The consequences
are immediate. Blood
streams from the long,
wide slice I’ve opened.
It vanishes down the drain,
and I can’t help but smile.
Yeah, It Stings
But at least I feel something.
Something besides hungry.
Something besides afraid.
Weird. I always thought
cutters were sick. Sicker
than me, even. But with
a single swipe I understand
why they do it. Why they like
it, even though they hate it.
I let the water run over the cut,
ratchet it hotter, watch the blood
slow, stutter, almost halt.
I like the way the exposed flesh
looks, all pinkish white. It looks
new, although I know that isn’t right.
It’s the same age as my skin,
my bones. Me. It’s been there
with me since the beginning.
Been there with me through
thick. Thin. Daddy. Suddenly
I don’t like how it looks at all.
Ugly Flesh
Still exposed, I dress in loose
drawstring pants, a soft, baggy
blouse. Definitely not haute couture.
In fact, I look like a pregnant hippie.
To complete the look, I make two long
braids with my grown-out bangs,
pull them together in back. All I need
now is some daisies to weave in.
Several minutes behind my usual
schedule, guess I’d better skip
breakfast. Somehow I’ve lost
my appetite anyway.
Not gonna go double digits like this,
but I’ve got plenty of time to work on it.
And the baggy pants make me
look larger than the size seven
I keep trying to outgrow.
Backpack Stuffed
With homework and books, I maneuver
the hallway as quietly as possible.
Right hand on the latch, I’m almost out
into the cold, cold morning when
the sledgehammer falls:
Where do you think you’re going,
dressed like some lunatic street person?
Just the tone of Daddy’s voice makes
my entire body quake. I don’t dare turn
around, don’t dare look into his eyes.
In them, I know I’ll see the real lunatic.
I find an excuse. “Uh, we…we have
a play rehearsal this morning. This will
help me get into my role, that’s all.”
He doesn’t buy a word of it.
Today is Wednesday. You have drama
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
Has he actually memorized my class schedule?
Does he really keep an eye on such things?
I mean, yes, he’s a control freak and all….
I finally face him, crazy man in the eyes and all.
He’s there, okay, daring me
an answer: Just
who (or what?)
drilled that well in the first place?
Kaeleigh
This Morning I Wake
Mired in confusion, an odd
sort of throb in my torso.
Hunger. The specter of my genie,
physically
haunting me. Stalking me.
Beneath my silk
pajama top, my empty
belly lies, flatter than ever. I
need
that binge, and something
more. Something to make me
feel necessary. Alive. This thing I
crave
(no, can’t) is new. Forbidden.
(No. Don’t.) What’s wrong
with me? I can’t believe I
want
this. Why me? Why now?
Why at all? My hand floats
across my curvelessness,
moves lower, to the need.
Who (or what?)
can I make believe is loving me?
Am I Sick?
My skin is hot. Fevered. Demanding
to be soothed. Touched. Satisfied.
Have I gone crazy? I have never, ever
done such a thing. Never unlocked
this private room inside of me. Never
ever wanted to take a look inside.
Am I possessed? Entered by a demon,
chained and padlocked, inside of myself?
I feel possessed, taken by some evil,
sick desire. Desire I can’t control.
What is wrong with me? I don’t want
this. Oh God. It can’t feel good.
But it does.
But it does.
It does.
It does.
Does.
Does.
Totally Humiliated
I go into the bathroom.
I’d like to take a hot bath,
but no time now. I’ll have
to settle for a shower.
The steamy cascade
streams over my body.
Sandalwood soap
lifts in a fragranced
fog, cleanses and
perfumes skin and air.
Nasty stickers of hair
defile me, the goddess
within. I reach for my
razor, triple bladed
and critically sharp.
I’ve shaved my legs for
years, know to be careful,
yet suddenly I don’t
give a fuck and push
hard. The consequences
are immediate. Blood
streams from the long,
wide slice I’ve opened.
It vanishes down the drain,
and I can’t help but smile.
Yeah, It Stings
But at least I feel something.
Something besides hungry.
Something besides afraid.
Weird. I always thought
cutters were sick. Sicker
than me, even. But with
a single swipe I understand
why they do it. Why they like
it, even though they hate it.
I let the water run over the cut,
ratchet it hotter, watch the blood
slow, stutter, almost halt.
I like the way the exposed flesh
looks, all pinkish white. It looks
new, although I know that isn’t right.
It’s the same age as my skin,
my bones. Me. It’s been there
with me since the beginning.
Been there with me through
thick. Thin. Daddy. Suddenly
I don’t like how it looks at all.
Ugly Flesh
Still exposed, I dress in loose
drawstring pants, a soft, baggy
blouse. Definitely not haute couture.
In fact, I look like a pregnant hippie.
To complete the look, I make two long
braids with my grown-out bangs,
pull them together in back. All I need
now is some daisies to weave in.
Several minutes behind my usual
schedule, guess I’d better skip
breakfast. Somehow I’ve lost
my appetite anyway.
Not gonna go double digits like this,
but I’ve got plenty of time to work on it.
And the baggy pants make me
look larger than the size seven
I keep trying to outgrow.
Backpack Stuffed
With homework and books, I maneuver
the hallway as quietly as possible.
Right hand on the latch, I’m almost out
into the cold, cold morning when
the sledgehammer falls:
Where do you think you’re going,
dressed like some lunatic street person?
Just the tone of Daddy’s voice makes
my entire body quake. I don’t dare turn
around, don’t dare look into his eyes.
In them, I know I’ll see the real lunatic.
I find an excuse. “Uh, we…we have
a play rehearsal this morning. This will
help me get into my role, that’s all.”
He doesn’t buy a word of it.
Today is Wednesday. You have drama
Tuesday and Thursday afternoons.
Has he actually memorized my class schedule?
Does he really keep an eye on such things?
I mean, yes, he’s a control freak and all….
I finally face him, crazy man in the eyes and all.
He’s there, okay, daring me
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