Because this is a party, a smoke break
circling diet-culture syntax, discourse
disguised in an eating disorder’s clothing.
And I am recovered and shooting
his darts in appetite suppressant exhales, still
he talks through my vocal-fried and lower-cased
“totaaallllyyy liiiike what ever
happened to tape worms?” with a full chest
and half head of hair, throwing up
numbers, pharmaceutical companies
and waist-to-hip ratios like weightless
inconsequential symbols of divine right,
while he determines—age, weight, or IQ—
my most marketable scarcity, like making his pornography
smaller will make the rest of him richer.
I am supposed to like myself.
Accept the things I cannot control.
This is me. This is a good thing. He wants
to eat me. I want his willpower and you
want to condemn smoking but Kendall Jenner
is the highest earning supermodel of all time
and Facetunes her thigh gap
wider, to her mother complains
on national television: her breasts
sit too low, jacks them from chest to chin.
She pouts. Because I am the cool girl
on this porch and do not flinch, cry
wolf or drown his tongue in the party’s tepid pool,
see him swell with chlorinated rot,
pruned to an irredeemable organic shape.
No, I am the gun, smoking. Shoot me. Eat me.
If you can still see me, I am doing this wrong.