Trigger warning:
this poem alludes to anorexia.

This poem is not about me and I do not suffer from anorexia.

I have already written this poem a few months back in my book "Tales Of Miraculous", but I've decided to put it in this book because I feel like it relates to this book. When I first started to write this book I was certain that this would be a book about Women's rights specifically, but as I'm writing poems and paragraphs my eyes have begun to open to many other issues. I will still be writing about Women's rights but I will be continuing to write about other topics.

This poem is about Anorexia and I actually thought of it while I myself was reading a poem, it was Home by Warsan Shire and there were so much imagery and powerful words in the book that I became quickly inspired to write one. Additionally, I tried to find an instrumental to go with this and I searched for African drums but I couldn't find one that fits it well but if you want you can go search for an instrumental to go with it.

The growl of my stomach is louder than the beat of your drums.

The same drum beat that you can barely hear,

Over your exasperated hums.

Yelping in desperation as the cotton balls travel down.

The air being nowhere to be found to travel into my lungs.

You ask me if I'm hungry.

Is it because I'm not round?

Is it because the skin sticks to my elbows like velcro making sounds?

Is it because you have seemingly found thousands of cotton balls in my bookbag?

I become worried

Worried that you think that I'm strange.

Worried that you think that I'm some sort of deranged.

I clutch my stomach to stop the rumbling.

You don't notice the growls this time.

Instead, you look at my bones that seem to be all alone.

No fat to protect it.

You start wondering if I even eat little tidbits.

You ask me if I want to go to lunch with you,

You insist that you'll pay.

I tell you that I ate a big breakfast and that that's why me eating lunch is delayed.

You start giving me a lecture that you've spent days preparing.

If I go will you also pay for all of this regret that I'm wearing?

What made you sense this?

Is it because I'm not round?

Is it because my skin sticks to my body  like velcro making sounds?

Is it because the growl of my stomach is louder than the beat of your drums?

A few years later you find me sitting in a restaurant,

Air breezing through my lungs,

Wheeling through the day eating croissants.

The beat of your drums flowing through the air.

From my stomach all, you hear,

Silence.

Thankful for the silence,

Hoping that the cotton balls won't come near.