Disordered

Lucy has stars in her eyes. They scratch her
When she sleeps. They crack and splinter
Behind her lids as she dreams. She wakes with
Blood on the pillow.

The baby inside her is an invader. She holds her
Gut, tenderly (in front of others)
Ahhh and ooh and eeh. The thought of
It, twisting and turning, makes Her sick. It talks

To her when she's quiet and she finds new ways not
To listen. 'I'm inside you,' says the voice.
She eats another ice cream and taps her hands
Upon the table: bossanova.

She trawls the internet for
Answers. There should be joy. The thought of Weight, pure fat, pushing beneath her skin, hurts.
There are links, she finds between her

Past and these feelings: studies and
Links and statistics. All that past
Brought her here, a place she has scooped out
For herself. In secret.

'You'll never make it,' says the voice.
She pushes avacado between her lips with
Cider vinegar and grapes. The table, a constant,
Brutal, tea dance for her palms.