Day 1: A Poem

Day 1: A Poem - image of a calligraphy pen on a paper with lights blurred in the backgroundDay 1: I am about to perform my seasoned ritual of swiping crimson across my lips.
My lips feel like dried prunes as I remove last night’s smudged tips.

But I power pose with shuddering arms.

Day 2: My lips part, the crevices still tainted with last night’s lipstick.

My shivering hands smudge Vaseline to conceal the acid’s mystique.

I silently pray for a hasty revival.

Day 3, 4, 5 and 6: Four days of solitary confinement I have spend since the term was out.
No one could fathom what was going on barring the toilet flush’s shout.
If only it spoke the alien tongue of voluntary purging.

Day 7: I finally notice the paramount contrast between my rotting teeth and red flower mask.

Day 8: My chapped lips giveaway, even before the faux, blood laced power pose.

Day 9: The stench thrives like a malignant tumor; cancer of my throat, my soul.

Day 10: My stoic finger icily inches towards my mouth, the sun has arisen for annihilation

Tender crescents I loved dearly, abused unabashedly. Roll sound; lights, camera, action.
Welcome to the ruination of my best asset.

Day 11, 12, 13, 14 and 15: Dehydrated yet damp, is my wine covered marsh of acid burns.
My sandpaper vocal chords ache in the sound of silence; time’s wheel turns
What caused it, what’s happening, what it’ll result in.

Day 16, 17, 18, 19: Still trying to balance my arms on my hips, my legs apart like I love myself.
Attempting to capture and mask the streaks past my chin like unwanted dust on a shelf.
Prisoner in a haven that is not home.

Day 20: In public- “Are you tired?” and “You should see a doctor” are the welcome greetings.

Day 21: “You have lost too much weight!” “Are you dying?” yet I knew no one was bothered.

Day 22: It was time, I finally decided, the ruby sword is no longer my shroud but my weapon.

Day 23, 24, 25, 26: It is the first time I revealed my freshly formed fetus visage to the world.
Sans the burgundy or mahogany, “It’ll be fine, I’ll be fine” in my head swirled.
I null over my grief; lighting flashes my eureka moment.

Day 27, 28, 29: I have been through the worst and nothing worse will hoarsely caress me; I exhale negativity.
The hex of perplexity unshackled; sniffing the presence of love, to howling on the toilet; I inhale positivity.
I was hungry for 28 days. But on the 29th day I was neither hungry nor foolish.

Day 30: I realize red lipstick is not a mere mask for my flaws but defines my shade; my individuality.
It outlines my mistakes, ideas and decisions. It is a part of me, a reflection of my mentality.
I lift the fork and have my first meal in a month.
Tingles past my oesophagus. I feel tingles in my heart.

Once again I power pose; confidently, genuinely.
For me.

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