Q

for anyone who had food become a demon in their mind, xo

To stand mid-aisle at the grocer’s,

shelves unraveling in sensual

chrome; to have this cookie pressed in

the flex of my palm, insisting,

crying a bald infant’s need to

be fed. It reminds me that I

am mad and have become numbers –

each pound and rib immaculate,

quietly approaching zero. If

this self could still be mine, hold me

up at the cashier, razor thin

blade against bone, and have me choose:

body or your life?

body or my life.