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 Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books Scribblings Of A Madman (Lit Fest Press); Poetry From The Nearest Barstool; and a split poetry book The Raven And The Vagabond Heart with Bethany W Pope. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.