Inner Monologue

I wrote this from the point of view of one of the character’s in my most recent short story, but upon looking back at the monologue I realize it was inspired by my personal experience of being deep in the caverns of an eating disorder.  When you are in an eating disorder you loose all sense of self, all sense of humanism… all sense of safety.

Black Hole 8

I don’t know what safety is anymore.

Even my reflection makes me scared.

My long boney limbs are twigs waiting to be snapped.

They hang by my sides like slacken ropes.

Swaying as I walk, nothing more than cooked noodles attached at my shoulders.

My sunken cheeks are empty caverns.

My cheekbones are etched out stones, jagged and sharp.

And my purple eyes are beady and unresponsive.

I stare at myself and don’t know that I am staring.

Unaware of who I am, where I am, or what I am doing.

My pale skin is a translucent gateway into the inactivity inside me.

My soul has died inside my chest

and I am slowly freezing from the inside out.

Icicles are forming around my lungs

and my cold breath is fog when it meets the warm, humid air.

My blood is solid and my limbs have turned to stone.

My hands hardly move.

No matter what I may tell them to do they won’t move.

Frozen in fear.

Paralyzed by circumstance.

I am a sculpture of ice as fragile as glass

that with my next attempt to move

will shatter into a million hollow pieces.