The words echoed in his ears. He could still feel her kiss, still feel her arms around him. She had gone now, rushing off to her house, leaving him alone. It’s what you wanted, he told himself. She can never know. Still, a small part of him cried out for indulgence. She loved him, but she barely knew him, too. But he shook his head. “No,” He said aloud, “I don’t have the right to think about myself anymore. People died the last time I did: I have to protect her.” He sadly snapped his fingers, shutting the blue door.

Oh man

That egg is on the run

Is that a spatula holding a torch gun?

Look out egg he is going after your son!

Cross between the frying pan and the cooking pot

You still have a chance, the stove is not yet hot

Man keep running and stop taking peeks

Now is not the time for hide and go seek

Your life bar just turned purple!

Darn it you are going to lose because of that big boss Mc Griddles

Son of a gun!! That dream again

I need to stop buying breakfast at Mc Donalds especially that #10

I know you think I’m weak

That if you cut me open I’d bleed pink lemonade

Me and my voice, we’re small, that’s true

I think that’s why I prefer myself in ink

Because on paper my words are big and beautiful and don’t fit in your plastic containers

When you look at me, do you expect me to

bow for the ants under our sneakers?

To get on my knees so they can run around

inside their castles of dust?

I can want to die and not wish to stain my carpet red can’t I?

Today I thought about celebrating Halloween in March. Carving my face up like a jack-o-lantern with the same knife my mother used to slice cucumbers before the weather got cold.

Sometimes I look at my hands, at my fingers curled around a pen or maybe nothing at all, and I tremble. I fear the day my body betrays me, and at the same time feel as though it already has.

When I was younger I was told I had piano fingers. I held my father's hand in the parking lot of the baptist church. Now I can't even hold secrets. Water in my hands.

I think often about that maple tree across the street-- the one bearing our initials like clumsy tattoos. Still, I am itching to make art, to be art. My body, a canvas.

What would I be if not sick?

i can see the outline of your face

in the frosted reflection

of a cracked mirror~

echoes

e x p a n d i n g

poisonous words

uttered,

trapped

in the depths of

my mind

broken

from the start

attempting to fix

what is already gone.

weaving your way

through

thoughts

and memories,

recalled.

when

will

you

let

me

go?

It's a figment, I know. But fear cements my grip, and I cannot let go.

An eating disorder feels safe, until it tortures you. I can't give it up- how can I give it up? And I just don't feel sick enough.

The path I'm walking is one of discovery. Somewhere past an empty tomb, I've met a Man whose love I can trust. He makes me want to loosen my grip, sigh, lean into Him. He makes me want to let go. Of this thing we call control.