Dirty, Sticky, Mess

You chop, peel, shave, grate, exfoliate…steam, press, juice and preen. Your body is a smooth, scented, waxed surface awaiting to be frosted in fondant like a freshly baked cake, right out of the freezer…do you sincerely mean to please her? Somehow I doubt you, the label on the side of the box…interested only in getting your rocks off, on me…in me…what an endless waste of time and money and energy…the picking and poking, prodding and planning…in and out, over and over…and then sometimes your body simply rejects whatever you’re trying to put inside it which then requires needles and fluids and more drama than I care to acknowledge…all this fuss over a few bites not taken, and if I’m not mistaken, I said no! I am not your ‘ho, your bitch, your fool…food has never made me drool. It is a massive inconvience…just like your penis. Get it out of my face..put it back in its place…when the dishes are done, after you’ve scrubbed them, they must be placed in the cupboard only to be taken out hours later when the hunger returns…because it is rude to just eat out of the box…or come in your socks…I’m sure every one does it, but not in mixed company…put out the salted nuts…in a glass dish and let’s keep this shin dig classy!

When you pop the top and everything leaks onto the desk or the table, those are the moments where I just don’t feel able to swallow..let alone chew…but sometimes it’s easier to just take the screw, then to get all involved with my mouth…all those miserable textures and smells…and things getting caught in your teeth…let alone how you feel after it’s all over…stuffed like a pepper, like a pig, like a hooker (hook, line and sink her, master baiter; they’re all fucking traitors to those women of the sea; men)…fat and oily and sweating like mackerel, with an upset stomach and wrinkles…ashamed that you let desire get the better of you…it looked so good, maybe even felt good, going down…at the time…but now I can only think of where the nearest bathroom is… treadmill is…to get rid of it all..once and for all…Supermarkets are the brothels of my generation…pandering slutty boxes of frosted crack…you pay and you pay and you always come back..for more…you selfish, dirty whore..isn’t time to detox? Isn’t it time for a cleanse? You smell. You’re rotten inside! Get it out! Put it in! I am exhausted by this process of in and out…going in is just as filthy and miserable and tedious as getting it all to come back out…get his scent off your body, get the partially hydrogenated oils off your tongue, get the shit out-ALL OF IT! NOW!…and all of that sludge on your insides, pooling with pesticide and spermacide…the herbs, the teas, the tease…please…as soon as I get clean I am begging all over again…the hunger only feels good for a space of time before I long to be filled up again…cheesecake and skin…the same kind of sin…the only HOLY path I know is to go.. completely without…the hallowed hollow, I called it…now you know…the palpitations when they would talk about sex are the same ones I feel when they wheel in the cake…it’s getting late..haha..I have to go…I cannot say yes and I cannot say no…Yes I can. NO! Blow out your own!

And on occasion I come to a space in my time where it doesn’t phase me…I can take or leave you…I can swallow or chew…I can eat or dreamlessly sleep…I cannot feel you and I cannot feel me and a calorie is just a calorie…and then eventually I feel my own empty….I don’t understand the point of shopping, brushing, crushing, washing, rinsing repeating, eating and eating and fucking and eating…the fat and flesh, we are only here to resist and to tame and I came just in time before the turkey was shot..I do not eat meat…what part of this don’t you understand? I don’t kill for protein, don’t spill your skeet on me you murdering, wasteful pig…why am I in this body? Why? Why? God is funny? I hate money! I hate food! I hate sex! Is this a joke? Is this a test? I detest this…existance.  An unpaid manicurist? A pubic landscaper for a private garden that no one is worthy of entering because I am not worthy of eating, Garden of Eden, paying for the sins of my curious parents; surprise! it’s me! I’m actually quite happy with my destiny, to be their child, but I would like to grow up…this is eating me from the inside out…minutely, daily, hourly, sweetly and sourly…with pork fried rice and fucking lice…both of them give you diseases, see(oh but not me), it’s just the fear, you see, that keeps me on the brink of insanity, knowing it’s out there…both of them come with warning labels…except organic pristine produce…oh she’s perrrfect…look at herrrrr..she’s so girrrly and skinny and perrrefct…some people eat maggots…some people say faggots. And I say fuck that and fuck them. Fine. Who then? Betty Crocker? Joe Cocker? No he didn’t and now we’re divorced. I mostly ate alone with the cats, thank you very much. The truth is I want neither. Not the cake and not your stake…take both and shove them in someone else’s easy bake oven.

It is not desire. It is not fear. It is the messy process…the sorting and courting and weighing and paying…it feels endless and unrewarding with only a narrow field of ‘rightness’ available, like the marginalized room for error…it is small, when you are small, and your house and car and budget and shoes and …well, it’s all small, which means you drop things and try and wedge things into place or you don’t take in very much because there is no room for it, and you get bruised often from banging into everything, slamming and jamming (which has too much sugar and you are anything but sweet) Vein. Plain. Bruised. Jane. You look so masculine and stringy. You look so girly and frilly. Fuck you for your opinions very much; the contradictions of my mother, and that guy and the FDA and the CDC, NBC,ABC, FOX, CNN, headline news: Holy SHIT! Sherlock! Sugar is bad for you! (and all the sweetness is gone from life and your pump is broken and we haven’t spoken)…and even when you have come to the right and most Holy and perfect consumable…it is too soon or too late or too costly..or you ate too much…or gave too little…or you burnt it…or it is just crumbs, as you had suspected it would be despite the shiny, deceptive packaging. I really don’t think it’s fun. I really do think I’m done…for now.

6 thoughts on “Dirty, Sticky, Mess

  1. Whoa! Very heavy. Be careful, or you’ll end up on a school curriculum reading list, and then teenagers will have to write long essays about what they make of it all! 😉 I thought it was so interesting how you juxtapose food and sex and how one affects the other, in particular around bad experiences, and also how there is a lot of unhealthiness in general around both food and sex in society. And then the links between food and sex and life and death. Unless you are an autotroph, like a plant or chemosynthetic bacterium or the like, your own life only goes on by the loss of life in the food chain, in which you will one day end up yourself – your chance to give back in that context, and there are some cultures who actually feed dead humans to vultures and the like for that reason, yet most of Western society seems to prefer making it as hard as possible for people to give their substance back after a lifetime taking in substance from other beings – even the worms have it made difficult for them, having to brave furniture wood and formaldehyde in many cases to get to a human carcass…

    Your use of internal rhyme in this piece of prose was really striking. Read aloud this could easily be interpreted by a rap artist. It also has that feel, in terms of protest and call to awareness.

    What I like most about this piece is that it allows me to step in the shoes a little bit, by invitation, of another person saying, “Well, this is what it looks like from here, from where I stand.” It gives me another bit of an emotional context of the kinds of factors that can sit behind eating disorders, and how they are complex factors, and go far beyond food itself. You won’t read it like in a textbook. This is the kind of thing people need to read more of to start to really get the various struggles around bogeymen like abuse, eating disorders, mental health struggles, etc and for people collectively to make things a bit easier for each other. I wonder if the psychology/psychiatry undergraduate course coordinators could be induced to include actual pieces of creative prose on relevant topics, and not just the “data” / science level?

    Cheers; glad you started blogging! 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    • Oh my, haha ‘Sophie.’ Well. I’m blushing. You might be the only one to have admitted to reading this. A long time ago I used to read poetry like this out loud in boots, at open mic nights. I burned all of those poems but this one I decided to I needed to keep. It felt important, an honest piece of the anger and conflict and an absolute truth with regard to how I still feel about unchecked appetites. I don’t know that all eating disorders share the same root since many anorexics come from wealth and I always felt like I starved myself for different reasons, but what I have noticed after years of treating addiction is some indication of an emptiness which cannot be filled…and something about exploitation or entitlement. I’m happy and relieved to say there is life and peace beyond what I wrestle with here but it is absolutely intentional that I left these words as the beginning. I believe that to be ‘born in Providence’ means that in the beginning we all face our shadow. This is mine. I’m so glad it didn’t make you run away! I also love that you call it ‘heavy’, haha. The photo is of a collection of antique meat grinders. Someday I’ll tell the story of that place. Thank you as always for your thoughtful responses.

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Unless I’m reading it wrong, 8 bloggers liked this! 😉 I don’t have the “like” button so I have to comment. Maybe the others were a bit shy to say anything though? 😉 Our English teacher (30 years ago!) made sure “heavy” was part of our reading (we actually had kids opt out of various set texts and do alternative assignments safely away in the library haha).

    So I’m talking to a fellow pyromaniac? Some of the things I wrote in my twenties, I burnt after rediscovering them a decade later. I think it embarrassed me to be human or something. Also it reminded me of a place I no longer wanted to be, or think about. Keeping a representative piece of that kind of thing is good policy though. After all, it was paid for in spades with distress. And you can file it as “social realism”, for instance.

    Interesting photo and I’m sure the story is worth hearing.

    Liked by 2 people

    • Haha. I think part of the blogging game is to ‘like’ things so people will come visit your site but it’s not always an indication that someone read what you wrote. Being shy is ok too. Either way the piece is no secret; a dirty, sticky part of my thinking I intentionally own and share. I’m researching the brain for a training I’m conducting, turns out sex and food are primitive neighbors. Media researchers know this all too well which is why every product, especially the ones we don’t need, (like fast food) are advertised using a sex.
      I would’ve come to your writing bon fire 🙂 We save a page here or there from the past (I like how you call it a good policy) but mostly the ‘burn after reading’ was about letting go…truth rises from those ashes. Your English teacher sounds very bright! Some of us might choose to hide from heavy realities but my experience has shown that darkness and light eventually collide.

      Like

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