A Song on the End of the World

On the day the world ends
A bee circles a clover,
A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
Happy porpoises jump in the sea,
By the rainspout young sparrows are playing
And the snake is gold-skinned as it should always be.

On the day the world ends
Women walk through the fields under their umbrellas,
A drunkard grows sleepy at the edge of a lawn,
Vegetable peddlers shout in the street
And a yellow-sailed boat comes nearer the island,
The voice of a violin lasts in the air
And leads into a starry night.

And those who expected lightening and thunder
Are disappointed.
And those who expected signs and archangels' trumps
Do not believe it is happening now.
As long as the sun and the moon are above,
As long as the bumblebee visits a rose,
As long as rosy infants are born
No one believes it is happening now.

Only a white-haired old man, who would be a prophet
Yet is not a prophet, for he's much too busy,
Repeats while he binds his tomatoes:
There will be no other end of the world,
There will be no other end of the world.

(Warsaw, 1944.)

Twenty what / Eating is hurtful

I'm legal to drink now. Who wants to buy me one?
No takers?
Oh well. I just do shots anyways.
My mother always warned to to watch my addictions because they run in the family. I mean, my family on my father's side are completely soaked in alcohol and drugs.
Too bad they missed the eating disorders completely. That kind of hurts that they didn't even notice really, and what they did notice they just told me to cover up.
"Wash out the sink next time."
"Make sure we can't hear you."
"I don't want to hear you bitching about eating that later."
"Why bother eating when you're going to throw them up anyways?"
"Does it taste good?"

Hurtful.
I weigh less than I did when he deployed. But I still hate my body, and I lied about it. I told him the only part of my body I didn't like was my belly and my lower back. I didn't mention the fat saddlebags or the teeny boobs or the chest flab or the cellulitis on my thighs.
It's days like today that I wish I hadn't given up cutting. It would feel so good right now, just to cut open my skin and let the blood leech out, and let the fat go out with it.
I can't do that anymore though. He checks me for cuts when he gets back. He found all the ones from last deployment, and I can't handle that face again. It's hard to hide them when you're lying naked on his bed.
Maybe I'll go put on some make up, take some of my diet pills, put on a long baggy shirt and just suffer through. It's what I always do. I can't hide from this, and I'm too stubborn to give in, although it's tempting as fuck.