Idolatry

The guilt creeps up from the hollow of my stomach, and I wish the food would too,

But the putridity weighs heavy as stone

While my shame catches at the back of my throat,

Knotting there,

Choking me.

The sensation of my body overwhelms me,

And the force swelling inside escapes only through tears,

A slow leak that doesn’t relieve the pressure

Even though it's crushing me;

I am an overinflated balloon, expanded to bursting,

But I won’t pop, and I’m not deflating fast enough.

So I make my own incisions

To empty myself of the misery if not the malady.

When you dance on a knife’s edge, there are two sides to fall off,

But when you slip on a razor,

It sinks deeper.

I carve a tangible validation into my flesh,

And though flesh is less permanent than wood or stone,

Religious repetition leaves its mark.

I want this to last.

If it doesn’t last, it was never real.

If my idol fades, I lose my authentication,

If I heal, I am counterfeit.

The outside must reflect the inside.