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

Lunch Poem

does my soul still stretch for the past
stuck in a self-destructive seventeen year olds
mind, never growing up but growing old
all the while because I can’t stop time

do I long for life or death now?
my post suicidal mind wouldn’t know
which one to tell you, I just stay scared
all the time because I can no longer tell
wrong from right

so I stay in the darkness when I greet
each decision of the day, my thoughts
haven’t been clear for a while and here I am

simply wondering if a cigarette and coffee
count as eating a meal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

Bedtime Stories

words spill out of my body
only in the hours in which I am so
sleep deprived that my senses
do not filter out my authenticity
with an anxiety to write something
beautiful, instead my insides turn
out and I am exposed for all
that I am in the least poetic sense

I crave being pretty poetry and yet
my lines only ever align in the time
which I am barely even conscious
breathing heaviness behind my eyes
forcing my hand to stroke the page
for only a few more words written
before I fail to stay awake
trying to grasp my aching wonder
suppressed into a sleepy mind

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann