A Liberated Sheep in a Post Shepherd World

A Liberated Sheep in a Post Shepherd World

In a room where silence fell like snow
She pinned the number on her dress
Hours before she jumped
That silent Sunday afternoon
Inches and miles away
From the white chalk farmland
Where a sea of darkness
And steering winds waited

They loved how they had broken her
Made her their own
Once more herding her back
Into the seven-fold flock
Where this liberated sheep
In her post shepherd world
Had once defied the master’s crook

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Food Was Never the Problem

Food Was Never the Problem

Food was never the problem. Desperately
seeking Self was the real deal, the one that
I kept hidden deep beneath my skeletal frame.
At times I was close to death from all the
gorging and vomiting, yet he never noticed.
You live with someone for sixteen years and
they don’t notice how the secret language
of food eats your heart out, while you play

the weighing game just to get through your
day. Brutal, brutal bulimia with its shallow
heartbeat and ashen skin, sandwiched me
between pain and the shame of it all. I did not
fit – everything fell apart. I was scared then
of getting fat and not feeling safe. Later, much
later I had to face myself and talk through,
rather than eat through Love’s hunger.

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