Anorexia Nervosa
You remain
lodged in my teeth.
Too comfortable in that crease
between tongue and cheek,
and your foul taste is tangible,
plasters my palate
in peanut butter quarantine.
Stale cereal snarls –
your morning breath
inflames my gums,
your oven fumes
froth behind my lips,
gurgle back toward my lungs –
I inhale your off-putting,
and you consume me,
in dinner leftovers.
I try to scrape you with my pinky nail,
floss you from
my whole,
and still you
suck your tummy in tight
and hide between
toothbrush bristles —
a naughty child crouches in corn stalks,
scraped knees,
ignoring the third dinner call
as the sky grows dim
and the porch light flickers.