By Michelle Fulkerson
You have traded in your confidence for a scale and a preconceived notion. An accountant is what you have become. Counting calories are your new ABC’s. I'm watching you waste away your veins transforming into Braille your skin transparent as tracing paper clothes hanging from your skeletal frame. Your school planner becomes a calorie counter. No room for food when you are swallowing lies consuming air like it is crackers, and guzzling water like it is air. You are in too deep now. You try to deny, to say you don't have a problem, but darling…I don’t think it normal to pass out in the hall. At eighty-five pounds you blow in the wind. With pale pupils and dead rimmed irises, the only language you are fluent in is numbers. Numbers on the scale of calories of days without food. An accountant is what you are. In a malnourished haze you navigate, dim bulbs turned into searchlights conversations faded into static. Your stomach now so small fasting for days to reach that “perfect size” yearning for the weight you once were. An accountant you are. I'm looking at you. Watching you Starve.
Fear Knocks Twice
Relax and relapse Welcome back old friend You’ve been gone for too long Can’t remember why I pushed you out. Oh yes, that’s right. You were the one leading me to starve. You filled my head up with false promises, false notions of confidence and control. Oh, devil on my shoulder you led me down this path of destruction. Morphing my body into your canvas, you etched away at my “flaws.” You showed me things I needed to be. Old friend you kept me in your clutches two years too long. Brainwashed me, scrubbed my mind clean. Camouflaged in the shadows, you twisted my values, carving my canvas down to the bone. Old friend A friend no more. I’ve been pushing you out going on six months now. I left my family, my friends, my home to take you down. I spent hours upon hours building my own work of art. Tried thousands of keys to open your lock. Finally I ripped you away, discovered a prescription no longer under your control. But here you are old friend waiting with relapse. Your once enticing beauty turned sour is enticing once again. I fear if I reach out you’ll never let me go. Old friend Acquaintance once more… Memories of tools flow back. Tools designed to keep your ways at bay. Enticing you’ve become, vindictive you are. My need to soar requires leaving you. Something, old friend, I’m not so sure I can do. No, wait. Flip the script. Something, old friend, I’m sure I can do.
rosin coats the hairs of a bow held in a delicate grip. A spotlight falls and a melody starts, fingers flitting about along the strings. It’s a dance, elegant, ornate, captivating. Dainty hands play as though the notes are part of them, intertwined with their soul.
Texture of Hope
Hope is rough like the pages of a well-worn book heavy as blotting paper, yet it easily slips through a person’s grasp. Tan and flat, hope is a page with another’s words covering the surface. Hope is not some shiny far away thought or a wishful dream like state. Hope is concrete and surreal all in the same moment. Some say hope is like the stars, always there yet just out of reach, a light to guide the way. Hope to me is flexible, seen in a song, a book or a phrase. It ignites a fire within the soul, supplying the momentum needed to move forward while also allowing those who possess it to take notice. Hope slows us down to appreciate, while simultaneously fueling the opinions, thoughts, actions and emotions we hold. Hope is as ever-flowing as the rivers, expansive and powerful connecting together in order to serve a larger cause fast paced and freeing, embodying the flow of water to carve out a purpose for those in need. Hope is oftentimes found in sorrow or great joy and in the darkness of a movie theater with the magic of the big screen that creates a shield from the life that awaits just beyond the theater doors.
Salt water upon bronzed skin a chiseled jaw and skin soft as silk. Grains of sand fleck the bottoms of rosy pink feet. I long to be in the sun to soak up its rays and lie in fields of flowers. I’m a shadow in the light of the early morning. Drink me up, let my thoughts become a melody in your soul. I yearn to make you everything that I am not… Happy Fulfilled Full. Dance in the light with me, drag me out of the shadows.
Michelle Fulkerson fought her way into the world at just 23 weeks gestation. Against the odds, she survived and thrived. Michelle loved reading, writing and music. She began writing poetry and short stories at age 12. Around that same time, Michelle began struggling with anorexia, anxiety and depression. She kept a journal where she wrote with poignant honesty regarding her mental health struggles. Michelle wrote up until her death, just 4 months shy of her 18th birthday.
Following Michelle’s death, her mother discovered that Michelle had begun compiling her poems into a book, which she titled, “Through Adversity to the Stars.” The editor completed the book Michelle started, searching through her journals and her google drive for additional poems, reflections and short stories. She hopes to one day publish Michelle’s book.
2 thoughts on “The Accountant and Other Poems”
How true is Ms. Fulkerson’s “The Accountant.” My girlfriend is an accountant as well, so I can tell you that the lines in this poem remind me of everything my girlfriend has told me.
Michelle’s words are vivid. I can relate because I have a dear friend who has, in one way or another, spoken them to me. It’s a heartbreaking struggle. I send my love to you beyond the stars, Michelle.