you are what you eat

when my stomach eats like a horse,
my bowels become a haystack.
too prone to fire, but my insides
are still moist and pliable, pink
and pumping blood to the rest
of the heavenly bodies; galaxies
of freckles lining my arm’s inner
curve and the pathways of my
shoulders. so i chew thoughtfully,
considering every bite, my tongue
soft and my teeth ferocious, throat
swallowing, aiding in the digestive
process. settled, perhaps, but only
until it’s been hours since a meal
again, and i become an arsonist
of bodily functions once more.