My heart is a bulimic


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



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.


Image credits in order of appearance:

“This dessert buffet should be illegal.” By John Biehler from Port Coquitlam, Canada [CC 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,


2 thoughts on “My heart is a bulimic

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