An ugly love letter to a disease which you strain within, maybe to feel ‘better’, maybe to feel ‘in control’ or maybe just to feel at all. One that you both despise and romanticise, that ultimately always makes you feel less than you were before.
And so down the drain I weave,
blowing kisses to the copper.
Shedding calcium as I flake on,
silently slicing through myself.
Ionising every atom,
instilling each with rainbows
of a purge that keeps on going,
a bacterial spread that feeds me
with a bile, burning acidic.
Wet, wet fire lifting without smoke,
and evaporating till I melt
into something fresh again,
soft and placid in a puddle –
a mill-pond sea that was once me.
By Natalie Room