Portrait of us with my diabulimia

I spend most of my days thirsty, holed
up in my eyelids, trying to get warmer.

I am probably going to die soon
or young, at least, the pamphlets say. 

there’s no double meaning to this one.
not a punchline or a snare.

it’s statistical, unfortunate. I’m waiting
under empty wrappers, for you, greasy brown

paper bags, laughing. thinking: well 
I could go on bedbound, and you, well

-intentioned, tying my knots
like pretzels. buttering my crumpets.

let me teach you my favourite trick
where I draw in a whole box 
of cereal and the sugar draws all
the water out of my body.
 
watch me pass the untouched calories
on to your stained toilet bowl. my fat 
tissue perfecting its escapology. 

want to see me do it again? 
biscuits this time. do you wonder

how I’ve been keeping so frail 
with all of this potato
gone wet in my mouth?

I confess: it’s my faulty organs 
turned shortcut – the best I can do 
with sleight of body – 
the wicked privilege of choice.

on the bus

what strangers noticed first
was once my seasoned
thinness. how my head 

had got too narrow for my face 
and my knees too wide for both
my legs.

it was clear what I had done 
to me.

all that pity 
was very bad for my bones.

what’s marvellous this morning
are my straight vertebrae,

the good deeds ringing silver 
in my pockets, my attention 
to healthy detail.

I’m at peace with the blonded charm
of a fleshed-out body,
jangling & trapping the sunlight –  

the endless other things 
I am capable of; 
other things I am.