Holy War
I used to prod my empty
stomach - not empty like a
blank page, rather each
word drowned in ink, empty
like a cadaver, life blotted over.
I swam in the ache, the flooding
nothing, as I won. Against
the pain, the shake of my
legs, the part of me I
wanted to
Punish. I was a noble warrior,
a smiling master, the king and the
soldier in this Holy war. My prayers
sloughed off my tongue as
revulsion, rather, and sweet terror,
easy to know. I pressed
Fingers to bruises, or waited for
tea to brew, to wrap my plump
fingers around my cup and
savor the ache as they twitch
against me. Every
Victory meant I could
be good someday. I could burn
away the rot, fight my way
through the flesh, thick with
sin. I could find me amongst
the viscous misery.
I found only bile and ink blot
empty.
About this poem
This is about my time with an eating disorder, and the pride and satisfaction that kept me going.
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Written on September 15, 2022
Submitted on September 16, 2022
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 49 sec read
- 5 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | ABCADEFGGHDBIJDKLMNOAPQRSTAUA |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic trimeter |
Characters | 804 |
Words | 164 |
Stanzas | 1 |
Stanza Lengths | 29 |
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"Holy War" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 4 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/137792/holy-war>.
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