FOR THE LATINX RESEARCH CENTER, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY
Bones
Constanza Contreras
TW: eating disorder
I
In between your guts tightened like a noose
being pulled by your reason and your heart—
hands bloodied and fiery with friction—
lies a little voice that whispers,
just run away.
For years you have called this voice by different names,
have hidden her behind different doors in the folds of your body.
There have been periods when she has been more noticeable,
and you, more fragile.
She was the one who taught you how to starve.
It was she who would tell you,
memories can be erased from the body if you stop feeing it.
The memories cannot be there if you let the canvas burn,
she’d whisper.
…
And so, you would deny your body sustenance.
You’d begin to shrink, to sink into your clothes,
to slither easily into the little crevices of the world
around you, to fold into yourself.
And as your size diminished,
parts of your body would creep onto the surface.
They would become visible to touch, lay out new
hollowed shades onto your skin,
flourish like mushrooms, overnight.
In exactly three weeks
they would brush against your weaning hair:
that first rib, and then a second, pronounced,
taking over from underneath too big a bra;
organs palpitating tender under fine flesh;
the texture of fat and muscle imprinting itself on your touch,
through a veil of skin.
A collarbone
A hip.
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