I am popularity.
I am the envious glares of girls in the hallway.
I am fame.
I am the glossy cover image of perfection.
I am the hollowed cheeks
And the hallowed, concave stomach.
I am triumph.
I am the secret, the code, the ritual of the day and night.
So stand on the scales of justice
And watch them decree your sentence.
So walk to the mirror and watch the glass
Regurgitate your reflection.
It is bloated, binged, on rancid gluttony.
You are putrid. You are rotting meat.
But I am comfort.
The bittersweet pain of a purged mind.
I am hope.
The lights that dance in the lidded blackness.
So slit open the skin and sigh as you bleed
Like a backstreet liposuction.
So sway to the soundtrack of retching.
And we’ll harmonise, glamorise, your torture.
Walk to the sink and smile as you hurl
Your secret into open, white arms.
I am always waiting.