Peristalsis
Peristalsis lives in my throat,
lives in my hipbones and ribcage.
It pokes me when they get
beautiful.
It defies my 7th grade
science teacher, reaches
its claws from my
growling, irate, complaining stomach,
straight to the fridge,
and back to my hungering self conscious.
Not worth it, and I know it.
In goes the nutella. In goes the peanut butter.
In goes the granola and the cheese and the
regret.
But the peristalsis,
she who lives in my throat,
my thighs, my imaginary bingo-wings,
it pokes me, just when I'm feeling
beautiful.
lives in my hipbones and ribcage.
It pokes me when they get
beautiful.
It defies my 7th grade
science teacher, reaches
its claws from my
growling, irate, complaining stomach,
straight to the fridge,
and back to my hungering self conscious.
Not worth it, and I know it.
In goes the nutella. In goes the peanut butter.
In goes the granola and the cheese and the
regret.
But the peristalsis,
she who lives in my throat,
my thighs, my imaginary bingo-wings,
it pokes me, just when I'm feeling
beautiful.
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