I.
I owned 3
wigs in high school.
3 wigs
and a pony tail extension.
Wig shops
downtown were always a mystery from the sidewalk.
The
interior always some variety of mustard yellow, black, silver
and heavy
with mirrors.
The endless
rows of styrofoam heads.
The sweet
chemical smell of beauty and the stale bitter smell of endless cigarettes.
Places
where aging, poverty, illness, self-love and adornment converged.
Lucky for
me I was naturally flamboyant
dramatic.
I loved
all the big divas.
Rhinestones
show
tunes and the stage.
Old wing
tip shoes, paten leather heels and men’s suit coats,
deep red
lipstick, liquid eyeliner, leopard print.
So when
my hair began to fall out
the wigs
they came
as an easy solution to hide the illness.
It’s
really shitty to be 16 and have your hair fall out.
Always on
the out looking in
balding
was too much.
It gave
me away, screamed sick
damaged
failing
vulnerable.
Screamed
lost cause
too much.
too
loudly.
But the
wigs
the outfits
that went with each wig
it was
all day theater.
The art
of passing .
Smoke and
mirrors razzle-dazzle.
Ever
crafty and resourceful
I
reinvented my sick ass into something audacious
unreal.
The illusion
of everything is just fine
spun by a
sick and scrambling queer.
II.
Starving not cutting
which I tried but it didn’t work for me
like the slower blade of wasting
Since I was little
I’ve swallowed trauma
It lives in my belly
A time-release poison
Designed to kill
self love
Feeds me restriction feeds me self destruct
It is why
despite being brilliant at everything I’ve taken up
I lose it
like milk through my fingers
I carve out people like portions of food
Restrict myself right outta living
Perpetuate the drought
The not quite suicide of hunger
addiction
The intricate dance with poverty and the necessity to eat less
fits neatly into success
lives on the lean edge of bone
right up under the skin
where the ends meet only to cut themselves free
The control I need
when money is outta my hands
Milk through my
cold finger hands
Bone first hands
On ribs for security hands
tenuous will to live
hands
put back the food
Save it for the rain
that doesn’t come.
III.
my body
is a hook
20 years away from bulimic
but anorexic hangs
on my back
drapes around me a thread bare coat
my gut
if I could
if I’m honest
I’d empty it
like a bowl
not for holding anything
purely decorative
and empty
I’m hard wired for that next to the bone feeling
having a handle on it all
a hook to hang my baggage on
my body
a living breathing argument
always the chatter in the background of my days
always worried if there’s food to eat
always worried if I will eat it
always worried if what I chew will actually be swallowed
if what I put in it will really digest
and if what I put in it will come out
if it will all come out
for a while after I stopped purging
I couldn’t bend over
without the contents of my stomach
automatically rushing up to my throat
with perspective
I have recovered
survived
but still I waste
I’m hooked
hung up
hunger is handled
like a bank account
handled
like an almost emptied
bowl
of water and
worry.
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