I no longer suffer with anorexia, but I still find that I have things to say about it. This poem started with a thought, about a heartbeat being too faint, like rain landing on already damp grass. I thought to myself ‘who would have a heartbeat as faint as this?’ Then I remembered that when I was ill, it was often extremely difficult for the Dr to be able to detect my heartbeat.
I’m not thin enough yet.
My narrative isn’t as unpredictable
as it should be.
I ought to be playing hopscotch
with death, my ankles should rattle
whenever I move.
My breasts still shudder.
They should like braille – only just there.
It’s clear I’m not trying hard enough.
My skin needs to be like thinnest ice,
ice you can’t trust.
I need to be blinking salt not tears.
My heartbeat isn’t faint enough.
It ought to sound like rain landing
on already damp grass.
And my hands need to be all knuckles
It should be risky to handle me.
I need to be breakable with one touch.
I’m not yet thin enough
to wear my crown of bones.