The Beauty in Tragedy Lies in Selective Voyeurism
I’ve been taught to hate myself
And fear myself.
To suppress it all,
to collapse and cut away
At the parts of me that
Are shriveled and rough.
I’ve been told that
Where my ribs strain frantically
Against my too-tight skin,
Is where I’m most beautiful.
That the purple crescents that bruise my eyes
Are all too poetic.
That the two jobs to my name,
And my uncertain
(But certainly tragic)
Future are just so inspiring.
I am led to believe that the remnant of my
Destruction, is the beauty I should
Strive for. That my dying body
Is more beautiful
Than my hypothetically
Healthy one.
But the nights I spend
Clawing at my throat as my lungs heave
Against the silent sobs I can’t suppress,
They are not beautiful.
The desperate way my teeth
Dig into the meat of my arm,
As I struggle against a tidal wave of rage,
Is not what they wanted to imagine
Left the springtime green
Shadow of a bruise,
Just above my wrist.
The way every bite of food elicits
An argument from me:
-It’s not what I am willing to stomach-
-I can’t afford to eat today-
-If I eat this you’ll just complain of the smell-
They all lack the image
Of the starving martyr
Everyone found so sweet.
If I exist outside of the confines
Of this delicate beauty,
If they see the violence that
Creates this creature
Of silent suffering,
Then I no longer am worthy of admiration.
I have been told at every turn that destruction
is my only road to redemption--
But I am not allowed to explode.
I must wilt slowly
Like a flower slowly deprived of sunlight.
Stretching ever upwards
As I grow thinner and thinner,
Until I collapse under the weight of my own body.
Never once a wilted leaf, or browning petal
Or obvious source of my distress.
I’m not allowed either,
Any simple happiness.
No trinkets bought in an act of self-love--
I can’t enjoy my favorite foods,
Or finally, finally, revel in a night of rest.
I’m not allowed the two small pills that keep me sane,
I can’t dance, or twirl, or jump, or leap.
There’s no days of idleness
I can claim, or comfort
In my soft-furred cat…
I am only allowed to break,
Never to mend.
People love me as an inevitable tragedy,
With nothing to give the illusion
That I will be anything but.