Skin and Bones, she lays there…
upon a sickly hospital bed life raft.
Insides vice-like, stomach cramps
and nausea throne-rule the abstract day.
It started as ‘Self Control’
but, quickly disintegrated
into a foe-less War…
objection-less and unimportant.
The Feeding Pipes
worm into her barren soul,
sustenance is such hard work.
She folded her Spirit up
and locked it inside a minute, narrow box,
then hid it somewhere out of reach,
upon the thinly veiled cusp of consciousness.
Bed pans, mostly unrewarded and unemployed…
delicate ‘Trickles’ and ‘Smears’ only.
Waking up, is like trying to breath
through a suffocating window pane,
with the yellowy Ward light
still far too bright to comprehend properly,
concentrate or focus upon.
All is cotton wool…
grating like sandpaper upon a ‘Quick’
This is Nothing but a shuddering Waiting Room.
She knows she’s still alive…
for this very morning
a pen dropped from her anorexic fingers
and Atom Bombed the sterile floor tile beside her.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.