Monday, November 8, 2010

Dies Illa

(after Tammy Foster Brewer)

Yes, I was HER—
that girl stuffed into a mold
too small, her mind convinced
her expanse greater than the plains.

          I lived a double life (life). The secret
          second binging on food with room lock latched.
          The contraband of my desire slowly rotting
          the bed .

It would go down easy at first,
a slow trickle and burn like a first kiss
that turns to bite you bloody in the end; I’d
force it in then, damage done, to bury it into
a stomach s t r e t c h e d to limit. The void
still gapping in the dusk of teenage summers.

                            There I am naked with the mirror
                            my enemy; shadows mock flesh and curve.

           Mouth full.
           Tears avenge cheeks
           with hate
           found in every inch of reflection.

           Breasts uneven (imperfect)
           Arms doughy (imperfect)
          Waist full and hips thick (imperfect)
           Legs less than feminine (imperfect)

I am unrecognizable.
There are several shades of disgust
gathering on my tongue, none of which would stand
up for me if called upon. They’d laugh outside
courtroom doors, snide and perfectly jaded, feeding
the illusion of perfect to me one dainty morsel at a time.

When it is all swallowed (soul and all)
and the Lacrimosa is on its final string,
I cover up my discretions and pretend to be normal.

Aleathia Drehmer 2009

Published by erbacce (Blood at the Chelsea) 12/09

1 comment:

Julia said...

Really, really good, Aleathia.