when the hot July sun is pleasantly warm, to buy cigarettes instead of food and swoon instead of live

words fail me now. ribs, hipbones do not. mornings i crawl from bed and wait while my inner organs rearrange themselves, filling in that emptiness where my stomach ought to be. poke and prod and pick and float. there are bruises on my legs where i have squeezed them while purging. i am remembering what it means to be lightheaded and invincible. my roommate's girlfriend calls me Flaka.

i want to say. well. i don't know what to say. words fail me here. you know the dichotomy, when you tell them you're doing "better" but what "better" really means is you're getting skinnier, you didn't eat today, you're throwing up less so that you can starve. wrapped in that cocoon of vagueness and myopia. untouchable. because "better" is a relative adverb and i'm standing on that point that makes it flip-flop back and forth, prodding it with my toe. mesmerised by the spin.

it's not ok. i know it's not. but i'm rushing pell-mell into it with a savage pleasure and i don't know how to stop or really at the heart of it, why.