They may notice my weary glance, the tint of sadness,
but this trembling underneath is not seen.
Yet, It engulfs me,
in ripples and shakes, of paranoia.
Constant tides of fear, flooding
me from the inside out.
This sandy beach we walk along.
Is but a beautiful blur.
As the noisy, incessant noises
are louder than the crashing tide
against the pebble, seaweed washed sand.
Then as daylight is swallowed into black
the waves slam and burst, colliding against the cliff-edge,
Shaving away the edges of loose, crumbling rock.
You turn to me and laugh.
Pick up a stone and cast it against the water.
I smile back, struggling to move my lips.
The pool is so deep, so easy
to slip under, with rocks concealed in pockets
Virginia-Woolf-style. She was a muse to you after all,
with those eccentric whims, long hair and floating dresses,
ink smudges marking her worn writing fingers.
The same as your own, complimenting
peeling skin, like strings of stretched webbing.
Parchment –like. One of Anorexia’s calling cards.