Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Bulimic Breakfast

My head rises spinning from its pillow
Pad pad pad
My feet find themselves downstairs
On the cold kitchen floor, pointed toward
A colder box of cereal that sticks its nose up in the air
I stare.
He stares.
I don’t need breakfast.
But instead I take a shiny silver spoon,
To admire
Plunge it into the nearest peanut butter jar,
And scrape off the gooey stomach to lather my tongue with belonging.
Good morning peanut butter.
The peanut butter wants a party.
I can’t disappoint. Bread, jelly, chocolate topping
Tortilla, ice cream, the leftover cake (if I can find it)
Grapes, burrito, milk, chocolate, butter straight
From the stick, the antisocial cereal, granola bars,
Crackers, raisins…
I tumble back into bed,
Drunk on peanut butter.
Cracker dust settles over my face, and it makes me sneeze.
Except the sneeze comes from my mouth.
The police are here. Run peanut butter, run!
I’ll fight you- leave before I cut you open to spill
All your pretty insides.
Acid and peanut butter, the wispy milk, the plump grapes
Skip right up my throat.
Acid burns green inside my throat, pummeling
My nerves, cutting my tongue with tiny razors
And thoughts seep up from my stomach with fumes
Like toxic waste, boiling my brain down to the size
Of a spoonful of peanut butter
With the consistency of peanut butter
Even thoughts like peanut butter
Slow and moist and too rich to be rejected.
As the guests leave the owners step in, shouting
At me, but it’s me that’s shouting at me
And I’m vomiting the hate all over myself again and again
Until I can’t take it anymore, and even again then.
I’m surrounded by peanut butter- it’s drowning me
And it will curl up inside my skin unless I get rid of it all.

Lights go out.
Pad pad pad
My feet carry me back to bed.
My head hits the pillow, spinning.
Muted thoughts of peanut butter delights
Whisper through my dreams.
I snuggle up with bulimia
And sigh, contented
To loathe myself.
All is right with the world. 

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