An–, GREEK: without.
–Orexis, GREEK: appetite.
It’s true enough.
I lost my hunger for just about everything:
Love, fun, people.
I hungered only for hunger,
And hunger meant control.
I probably would have dragged
My unfed muscles
Across a mile of
Shattered Willow pattern crockery,
Just to hit a calorie deficit.
And what do we see,
Depicted in said fragments?
A father’s consternation, blue.
A sister’s muted concern, white.
Friends smashed, morals smashed,
My feet blooded, a celery heart in each hand.
Writing on the topic proves challenging.
Not emotionally– I’m a certified sharer–
My brain’s changed;
I find it hard now to pull on that old suit–
It’s a tight fit.
Two gentlemen- this, at least,
We can confirm, that they are gentlemen-
Confer beneath the projector.
Whether they are here to critique,
Or come off-peak, like Tuesday noon,
Or bought out all two-sixteen seats
To secure themselves exclusive views,
We cannot say.
I only fear they come here for me,
To watch peel from my sweaty legs
The Batman pyjamas, to hear me,
In thought, curse the thermostat,
Which I am too tired to rise
And turn clockwise.
She has an hourglass body.
By which I mean,
That the last few grains of sand are sinking into the lower atrium.
I resent the term push-up; it’s
I press myself to carpet with
I hold the contraction, until
I like to pretend, on my
That my breath assists with
As if I were a hovercraft,
Ing through the nostrils, escaping
Like footprints, or my best friend’s