Pilgrim

I woke up this morning, November sixteenth
And I felt my hip bones protruding, my ribs stretching
Each time I breathed in. Yes, it’s true, I weigh all of 95 pounds
My eyes are swollen
And I am so fucking uncomfortable.
I used to be so beautiful. My hair was longer
And it made me more attractive. I think my skin also
Glowed with something else.
Now I am this.
Identity. Victoria is not the writer, or is she?
Perhaps the writer is simply “The Writer”
But who am I to say?
Pretentious, self-righteous writer who spills
Ugly letters into a puddle of decent patterns.
I can’t breathe.
This body is tight on me and I have a mechanical
Taste beneath my tongue.
I’ve been addicted before but I could verily
Say that it made me hold on for just a little
Bit longer.
I’ve shut myself into a stall with an exacto-knife and
Have carved myself like holiday fowl, bloody
And insane.
I keep tugging at my sweater. I can’t go on like this.
I look at the healthy people around me and
Wonder if they ever hear voices, too.
Last night I listened to the roar of a machine,
Clutching on to her shirt, fighting memory vomit
Of a holiday long ago where a little girl was
Slapped across the face for laughing during Grace.
She’s been exorcised too many times to count.
Who the fuck am I?
There’s 6, 9, 12 of me and all in me,
Beating, talking, laughing, crying, ingesting
The food I eat, but yet they are not the voices
That I hear late at night.
I want to take my clothes off and scream.
I want to smoke a cigarette and paint my lungs
Or maybe I just want to sleep.
Wake up, wake up, wake up, you’re dreaming.
She’s right next to you, chasing a mouse in her dream.

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