??I remember the bitter taste of the pills rammed down our young throats.
Our peers were getting thrills from ecstasy, whilst we were in agony,
the ironic mirroring did not slip past me.
The angels in white coats found their calling in saving our fragile perceptions.
El diablo, and his henchman diagnosis, dealt in our deception.
Deprived of experiences due to our protection, we found positive futures were an exception.
Receiving our meds as though receiving communion, the body of christ in the shape of a valium.
The screaming of mania still haunts my unconscious; my dreams still filled with girls’ fierce resistance of food. Their frail organs that stopped pumping too soon, before they could win their battle with their nemesis.
In sleep I still kiss their thinning hair and beg them to repair their bodies.
To allow the sweet nurture of nourishment to embrace their interior.
Alas, they would still feel inferior to fellow girls at death’s door,
who had given in, so self assured, they will soon be perfect.
I could never forget the times I spent, eyes squeezed shut trying to repent.
Though my memories serve me better
than the death sentence served cold on the silver platter to these waifs.