a plant would cower,
but damned if I do not
hide it in savage feeding
on everything in the cabinet.
Keep it in — hold the line
against the fire. Don’t think
of sharpening the knife —
which of the many I own
would I choose,
anyway? Which should
do the job I dread and desire?
I slash at the eggs to make them bleed
with common cutlery —
it’s not enough, but I will make do.
I’d love to drain myself
tonight. Would adore the sight
of the pool forming in the tub around me
full of bile. I would lose a little
weight, trim down, finally stop caring
how I look. But instead
I stuff myself some more and think a while
on how deep I’ll have to cut
to let this out — put on enough fat and
it’ll be too much work to cut through it,
so I’ll be safe.
Safer but still angry. Still hungry.
Something needs to be in danger from me.