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crusades of self-consumption
I. Exposure
my grip on youth,
innate and burgeoning,
weathers prematurely.
surrounded by
leafless, moribund
branches that are
worshipped
while the trees of
life and growth and fullness
are neglected,
i pray for
decay.
a body full of blood
that begs to burn and
freeze
(envious of the cold blooded,
scaly-sheathed and shedding),
a closet full of
for-when-you-are-thinner’s,
the scale claims throne
in my home
and i
bow to it.
II. Acquisition
this is the moment
everything has been leading up
to.
muscles sore and
fingers adorned with
stomach acid,
i am eating myself
(my insides are nibbling at my outsides
my insides push and protrude)
i am more
here
than i have ever been.
i stand upon my
verdict-begetting throne
filled with
worth
glory
and not much else.
III. Suffering
i sit before a plate full of
numbers and self-loathing.
I abstain.
in my pilgrimage, I have grown
(shrunken)
closer and closer to the
painted goddess on the
billboard.
more and more my collarbones
resemble hers’ sharpness and resolve
(while my bones become the
chalk-like stuff upon which
her image is cast)
outside the bounds of this
theocracy,
bystanders whisper and point
“are you ill?”
“have a bite”
(silent applause
from every
corner of the earth
and heavens)
IV. Recovery
they should have put a scalpel
to my brain
but all they did was put
a spoon in my mouth,
and perhaps that is
all that could be done
since they cannot yet
put a scalpel to the face of
the world.
i sit before a plate full of
numbers and self loathing,
now a glutton and a hedonist,
my body filled with
nothing
but substance.
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