Eating Disorders

Normally enemies, they are united in their concern for you.

“You’ve been so depressed lately,” says your better nature.

“It’s not good for you,” says your worse.

“You haven’t bathed in a week.”

“You haven’t eaten anything but peanut butter.”

“With a spoon,” adds your better nature, and shudders.

“Not to shame you or anything.”

“Oh! No, no, nothing like that. It’s just…”

“…It can’t be good for you.”

“Come out from under the bed.”

“Just for a second.”

“That can’t be comfortable.” You hiss and curl more tightly around the half-empty jar of peanut butter. “Come on, now. Come out and eat something. There’s some pig’s blood in the fridge.”

“Or maybe we can find someone easy. Park benches, alleyways… country roads.”

“Just be safe.”

“We’re worried about you, aren’t we?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

You buried an article of faith in the bottom of the jar years ago. Each bite burns through your stomach like battery acid. If you can’t control the hunger — and you can’t, you’re weak, aren’t you? — you can at least make it hurt.¬†Let that be a lesson to all the many parts of you.

Every Liter Saves Three Lives

You look down through your office windows, dry of all passions but a clear cold acquisitiveness. They have taken everything from you, at one time or another, but there is always more, more land, more money, to accumulate, to store away, seven years of plenty against seven years of ruin.

Your workers toil; none meet your eyes through reflective glass.

Once you raged; once you were a whisper of blood through streets without lights, violence crouched like a beast among the piss and the filth of the alleys. Once you were sharp at the throats of the proud, the mighty, those sat in judgment. Once you were a cause unto yourself, a bleak shudder of fatality.

You have resisted mechanizing. Machines mean nothing to you; what is a machine but freedom for the worker? You keep them chained to their tables. They call you generous and loyal; you would laugh, if that were something you still did.¬†Every three months the windowless van, the gentle urging of the signs, the long sharp rows of the phlebotomist’s teeth.

You feed them, and they, in their turn, feed you.

Gods of Olympia

Time was you could walk the whole twenty miles into town without seeing another person.

You and the wolves, whistling through the dark.

Time was you might catch a glimpse through underbrush, just a flash of tapetum, gold tease or red, and know you weren’t alone. Jingle of coin in your pocket warmth against the night, more company than company.

Time was you’d shiver your teeth loose when winter fought its hard way through the cracks in the walls, cough yourself bloody from the drip drip drip of nine months of rain. Mold on every solid surface, green fuzz and grey, bloomed up where your hand fell.

Time was.

Time was you’d be high in the hills, alone and free. Time was you could swallow your tongue in peace, hoard dreams of gold and riches, miser your way into some kind of heaven. Time was you could stalk in peace unknown feet ranging through your woods. Your woods.

Time was you called yourself real.