Body Check

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.