Almost Bulimic

Oh love the loss of you
Is good medicine
I want to choke up
On a bad day.
Our boy lifts his brow, like you,
For the pleasure of my laughter.
It’s then I sit on my hands
To keep my fingers
Out of my throat.

Asking For It

I have been used
To seeing myself through
The shifting prism of you.
Oh the dirty distortions
Disguised as illuminations.
Here, I am the fat lady,
My mouth ringed in chocolate.
There, a shrill and grasping crone,
Sharp to the touch.
And look over there,
A blinking changeling,
Head big as a melon,
Waiting to swallow you whole.
When did it become easier
To depend on your vision
Instead of my own?
Nice seeing-eye doggie.
I won’t cross myself
Against the light
Into oncoming traffic.
You, Princie,
Can do it for me.