By Sarah A. Foote

I always thought vanity
was the one to claim me
in the end, that vixen,
one of the seven. Now,
I think it may instead be gluttony.

Hours spent in front of looking-
glasses, examining oneself
is obsessive, excessive:

they signify the greed,
need for thinning
skin and sloping legs
and grave spine nerves
upon nerves, swerve
from the curves of hips
to shivering lips,
all aching to be heard.

But the siren singing under my skin
is louder than my hunger,
and again, prompted from within,
my body tears asunder.

 

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