Like a Head

He’ll rub you smooth,
worry you like a stone
down to a worn-out gleam.

And while he calls you Precious Jewel
he’ll pump and thrust you purple,
make his own amethyst trophy.
He’ll mount you, stuff you

until you’re so full of him
your organs are cotton

and your eyes stare blankly
at the opposite wall.

You’ll call this love,
engrave your own nameplate
for his prize mausoleum.

With Nothing Left to Consume, I Chose Myself

At sixteen, I tried to be bulimic:
too much commitment.
One Big Mac curling around itself,
a swirled waste of money,
tangy sauce drip in the corner
of my mouth, reapplied Revlon
Cherries in the Snow lipstick,
pungent red. Still maintained
blue velour belly-shirt flatness.

Learned I couldn’t invent 
my neuroses, couldn’t choose
my disease, depression/anxiety 
far less dazzling,
far less Lifetime movie,
more bones-fleshy-white-coconut-mounds,
more pill-rainbow hallucinogen of masks.
I tried to starve myself of insanity:
anorexiallright, I’m okay.
Much preferred a blissful week 
of wasting chocolate cupcakes,
fingering the creamy center,
fingering my dry paste crushed-ness.

Skinny mirrors villain: whole silver sleek slim
bitches who don’t work for it.
Sad mirrors villain: effort, break the broken
first line of offense,
first line out, train out.
I tried to eat myself away,
starve myself sane.
You can devour a chicken,
grease your mind slippery;
can’t make the mood thin and smooth
with magenta when you're curving
along the rim of the bowl,
spit out of yourself, your own rejection, 
vomiting shards and side effects.

About the poems: These poems come from the "dark place," the space where depression and artistry meet in me to make sense of my world. While I write from different points on the roller coaster, I find the midpoint of descent to be my favorite, the rush and exhilarating dive.

Crow Hollow 19

Jillian M. Phillips

            The artist's space.

Murder One, Fall 2015

Crow Hollow Books