Anorexia of the Heart

Circling around a plate full of misguided glamour
it dips down to take a mouthful of the substance.
(Is denied by the fork sinking into the already thin sheet of skin)
The heart takes a morose turn at the corner of isolation,
back into a desolate and lonely, cold bed.
After every bite that's not taken its stomach reverses,
saliva sprinkles down the round slew of pale pink complextion.
(Also soaking wet with sweat from exerting itself too far)
It's tired from being some type of creature longing to be human,
unable to connect with its neighbors the lungs or home its ribs.
Feeling like an outcast in the body it used to help live,
blood that once rushed through finding fingers now dribbles
across a blank canvas of crisp white like a painting.
Trying and trying again just to get a silly morsel
(Having hands chopped away by the dull blade of a knife)
It's sick is all,
Just a type of disease.
This is the anorexia of the heart.