The Art of Running
On the footpath, there’s an asthmatic child
with a bucket of chalk, he reminds you of all the
things you devoured that made you feel poorly.
The perfectly cut grass turns a solid green.
and the cars look like disco lights.
They say that you never really comprehend
redemption until your throat chokes up
and you’re screaming, knocking this wall you’re
encompassed in. Your mother never coming
home at night time because her boyfriend was busy feeding
her fancy cuisine instead of teaching you to cook.
When she walks into the house at ungodly hours you lick the
blood on those gashes and tell her it tasted sweet, it filled you up.
Your father is vinegar.
He’s a broken sole, with a broken soul.
he accumulates your pain, keeps in the pocket
of baggy jeans. The pair he only wears when
cleaning up the backyard shed, or cleaning away
your mothers awful paint jobs. He’ll throw it out when
you don’t need it. He’ll wrap you like a cocoon and
throw you from your branch. And when they ask
where the bruises come from you tell them that
you got on you fathers bad side. You’ve always known
he has no sides, never had. That man is a cylinder
of repetition, a merry-go-round missing the children,
trumpets, harmonica and murmuring laughter.
You don’t tell, you’ll never tell. Pretend he is
is prickles on perfectly cut grass and you need
to serve at your best for five years. But five years
seems so long when you’re stuck in a funnel,
they keel throwing dirty napkins and medicines,
they know that you’re sitting at the bottom edge,
on a wooden chair with a missing leg.
Keep running. Go.
Your body grants you with a momentary rush,
a feeling like an airplane preparing for takeoff,
there’s no likeliness and there’s no probability
that the clouds will seem any closer.
Right now you feel like you could fly.
Someone worth the watch. In that minute
of stupendous joy, nothing else matters.
Slow down now.
Steady. Deep breaths.
She runs her moonlit hands from your forehead
to your chin. All of her favorite songs ring a bell of
mutual reference. She plays piano and walks like
her ankles are weightless. Eyelashes that
will take out any flame.
What my eating disorder has made me:
- A liar
- A thief
- A sneak
- Out of control
What my eating disorder hasn’t made me: