Skinny

Not a morsel of food
has passed your narrow lips in days,
so how come the girl in the mirror
is fatter than ever?

Your mother pretends to mean well

as she hands you a loaded plate,

but in reality she's just desperate to fatten you up

like the prize pig you truly are.

Only water will suffice,

for anything else is a poison,
regurgitated once the humiliation is over,

to clear the evidence of weakness,

the shame of giving in.

The others
with their model figures,
their size zero frames,
they do not understand how it feels
to be so disgusting.
They say you are one of them,
skinniest of the lot even,
but you know they are just teasing.

Five hundred sit ups is not enough
if you want to combat that stomach of yours, love,
those mounds of repulsive gloop
you have brought upon yourself.

600 tonight.

Gentle

Come here, old harpsichord
let me play your strings.
I will be gentle, I promise,
for I know that they have not been touched
in a long time.

Gently sliding off your cover,
peeling away the last of the defensive layers,
I promise I will not hurt you,
only try to make things better.

I run my hands over each
individual string, so weary,
yet enamoured to my touch,
teasing out soft notes
that stretch you almost to breaking point.

You bend to my touch,
ever willing to fuel my passions
as I begin to pluck steadily faster,
your sound and my heartbeat in perfect harmony.

No longer sure what belongs to me
and what is yours,
we ascend into the ecstasy,
a symphony of lust,
my gentle cries echoing your vibrations exactly,
our souls entwined together,
lost in each other.

Slowly but surely
the music ascends to a crescendo,
and we are both at the gates of St Peter,
the paradise we have created for ourselves.

Keep me here, let me play.