It’s monsoon season within,
All expansion without limit or control.
I pray for it to end,
The weight gain is taking its toll.
Swallowing grows easier,
But it’s no consolation prize.
I’m nauseated at the shrinking space between my thighs.
They’ve ripped my crutch away from me.
I’m powerless to stand.
It’s not the lack of bulimia that makes me shaky but their growing demands:
Do this! Do that!
Don’t be bulimic, but don’t get fat.
Duck tape over your feelings, numbers, and signs,
When it comes to body autonomy,
It’s best you resign.
Prescription pads hums an artificial concern
Of pharmaceutical monopolies and mom’s frustration,
My lack of progress is their devastation.
I waste in support groups, therapy, and all the right steps.
Meanwhile, my gloom paves new depths.
It’s monsoon season in this broken body I’m forced to claim.
There are days recovery is so consuming I forget my name.
For now, I’ll gather my broken pieces—
Skin and cerebral—
Assemble an internal steeple.