Hug the throne

a little tighter

Cold porcelain

on warm flesh

Feel your stomach-

a little lighter

Than the last time

that you left

Windpipe closes

around skinny fingers

Reliable reflexes

they always kick in

The taste of shame

on your tongue lingers

And food finds its way

back up again

Watery eyes

cloud the sight

The mess you've made

makes you weak

The ceramic bowl

the perfect height

For you to see

your self-made streaks

Brush your teeth

until gums bleed

Scrub your palms

A hundred bars of soap

What you've done

Can't be cleaned

With mouthwash,

Listerine or Scope

Eating can be

a two-part process

When you hate

your thighs, your hips

Is the shame worth

the pounds, the losses

Some believe

it is

So close lips

around bony index

Bony middle

and let it all go

Feel the bowl

chill your neck

And feed

the porcelain throne

The End

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