Flesh is heretic. My body is a witch. I am...

Flesh is heretic.
My body is a witch.
I am burning it.

Yes I am torching
her curves and paps and wiles.
They scorch in my self denials.

How she meshed my head
in the half-truths
of her fevers

till I renounced
milk and honey
and the taste of lunch.

I vomited
her hungers.
Now the bitch is burning.

I am starved and curveless.
I am skin and bone.
She has learned her lesson.

i am taking this poem entirely out of context. i’ve even cut half of it out. i’m sure the author would despair at the twisting of her words and intent. but this is what it means to me. this is what strikes through to my core. i understand only this much.