Elora
Day by day,
I watch the wallows beneath my eyes
grow deeper and deeper – sallow and dark
like the purple underbelly of a starling’s wing.
Something’s starving inside me.
Not my belly,
but something much more difficult to fill –
and that’s okay for me.
That’s okay because
it’s much easier to run to the
slaughterhouse of my self-hatred
than to sit through the harrow of
feeling myself drain empty
again and again and again.
I’ve learned the hard way
that dreams don’t pack on fat like bodies do,
and it’s starting to take its toll.