I rest secrets inside folds of skin
Like sweat, like drops of fat and bone.
I'm weak for my hair and cuticle beds;
I diet to gain morals, give up colors for tones,
Try for nirvana, releasing flesh for air.
But I am still touching marrow,
Losing minerals for freedom to own
Only nothing but others' bodies.
I gorge on lust and vanity and perfection,
Gorge on graves to explain evolution and
Flaws in humanity.
Used to be, I ran, like water over grey stone,
But now paralysis shapes me, frozen in glass,
A white cream, cold drink, dripping down hems and
Onto skirts, erasing my heels, my shins, my virginity
All cut off: dead on Earth with phantom limbs.
I shed those from myself and begin again.
The thoughts come as sky opens morning
Like breath, my lungs, contracting
And releasing ghosts and vapors, and apparitions
All the imaginations from night.
I'm cured, but no, ninety pounds, and I'm still not thin.
I rest secrets inside folds of skin.
Nineteen year old English/Psychology major, Erin York always
dreamed of becoming a writer. Since she can remember, she's been
writing stories. Her first publication, the poem "Tenderness,"
was in the anthology Celebration. Since then, her poetry and
short stories have been published in literary magazines such as
A Gathering of Birds, The Rogue Poetry Review, and New Wine. She
received the Younkin-Rivera Prize for Poetry in 2008. She hopes
to publish a novel and graduate in the near future.