Reflection

skin stretches and pulls against the bones
protruding through my figure, plunging
out like a swan dive
off of the quarry’s edge, elegant and yet
haunting
because the starvation is tiring
and the will power left to fuel the swim
to shore is waning away
with the rush of the water against the winds of the land
and each meal mixed up in the blender beneath my ribs
before resurrecting to the place it once began
only this time leaving violently
between convulsions of hurling motions
as my head whips down as a finger
slips free making way
for the stream of self-hate to erase
itself from my body

only it is always there

with each glance at the slim reflection
rippling into the lake
pushing and pushing and pushing and
pushing
distorting the reality of my image and
as my figure dances with the waves
I can’t help but to believe
this fragmented, broken being
is the most accurate evidence of my appearance
that I have ever seen

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

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