The Bulimic And The Cutter Poem by James McLain

Long sleeved shirts cover the scars down to each wrist.
All of my ribs exposed to the sight,
a caricature of some past life nearing the end of this chapter by her,
called life.
Next to my face in loose fitting pants I pull them down.
To weak to move the sight of food makes me sick.
I push my hand inside of her panties the valley's the ridges
scars from her cutting I feel with the palm of my hand.
Mirrors inside of my room lie around all are broken.
Here on my bed in the middle I rest.
She sits on the edge and in her left hand clutched is my father's straight razor.
Translucent my skin spread across exposed ribs,
she traces the edge with the razor.
The thin flesh is parted the ribs lay exposed my eyes grow to heavy they close.
Here in my room she has left I cross over.
To the sound of broken dreams birds in flight without wings,
and a promise of things yet to come.