My heart is a bulimic

This_dessert_buffet_should_be_illegal.jpeg

Something raspberry as lips

whispers into the gush

of my being.

Is it still being intellectual

when I swoon into the cloudbank of créole musics, burn my fingers

on the ink of a sigh

of a tenor’s attenuate tremble attaining the top flight of laughter

in the sky, he is pure and weightless because there is no pain

in the self, no fear

I have to dance en pointe on a frying pan between onions and

memories as they caramelize

in the eye that lives on after the glass and retinas

are supplanted

by black dearths window-

silling over cheekbone blush? And how is it

that I can croissant, red goozing out the hole in my head

when the pastry brush was an amputated starfish arm?

And how can I shiver in the sun of perfect

afterday and fear

the end of breath and what

comes

after

a flip of the flat copper heart, an age on the price tag on my being,

being on the other side

of the glass that is unwanted

How can I fear balloons that would tug me into the sky

if sidewalkers below can see under my skirt for a minute

I’ll disappear soon, small as the moon, and never have

to confront them about it. How is it

that my name can be simmered down into a sweet

compote and spooned into the dreams

of my dreams’ drivers?

When is it precisely

(because i know it will be)

that this sweet crutch will crush down the drain and my body

with it

a spiderweb of cracks, a leg of lacks, lost

on the wrong side

of the glass

that is rejection

so very breakable?

And cream, there was whipped cream,

as well.

544px-Deckelbild_der_Polyphon_Spieldose

Image credits in order of appearance:

“This dessert buffet should be illegal.” By John Biehler from Port Coquitlam, Canada [CC BY-SA 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

“Cover image on the Music box by Polyphon-Musikwerke in Leipzig, Germany.” By Harke – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45714300

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2 thoughts on “My heart is a bulimic

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