The doctor warned me of the perils
of carrying too much weight
on my body, but never told me
how to set it down
and walk away.
Maybe if I’d learned to remain a child
while I was still a child, instead of
becoming this strange body
overgrown as a weed
all limbs and teeth and
I lose weight
when ****** eats away at me
takes root deep within my gut
an awful and parasitic insect
just like me, awful and parasitic
and (un)ashamed, sometimes.
I gain weight
when ****** blooms inside me
opens beautifully, like a flower
paints a sexily tragic picture
of my rotting flesh.
Maybe it’s ugly, but it’s the kind of ugly
where you can’t look away
“disaster porn”
if you will. I go on diets
occasionally, make a hobby out of
making myself smaller
but no more palatable. I feed on the
disease with which people regard me, monstrous.

Ally Ang is a queer poet of color from New England. Ally is in a very long distance relationship with the moon.