Rosary at the Altar

I just say please
won’t you be my priest
put me on my knees
teach me how to pray

nursery toy
won’t make me enjoy
Hail Marys, fuck boys
confessing my sins

hell and heaven
killing life within
did the Devil win?
I swallow his seed

Our Father says,
“day our daily bread”
but I’m giving head
so my mouth is full






by Angela Bachmann


On Being Bulimic

to vomit is really quite simple
when you normalize the feels
of the finger pushing further
down your throat to reach the meals

that you hate yourself for eating
but you couldn’t stand to starve
so you gorged yourself in garbage
until your stomach was enlarged

so commences daily actions
following three meals a day
jumping jacks to get you going
then your head whips down to pray

to the toilet as you’re hurling
waiting to start to dry heave
then you know that you’ve succeeded
and got all the fat to leave

over time you begin shrinking
but you never tell your shrink
wearing baggy clothes to hide it
growing weaker than you think

reading blogs on how to puke
but not following the advice
so you know it’s not a problem
tell everyone that it’s alright





by Angela Bachmann



sad hearts and heavy hands
taking over my body
so I can’t even stand
talking like pain’s my hobby

you go so here I stay
screaming to a silent wall
you always walk away
never there to see me fall

I bleed and you don’t know
look behind you’re never there
feelings you never show
so I can’t tell if you care

mind numb, suctioned with hate
suffocating all my thoughts
can’t even contemplate
all my thinking turned to knots

so I just wait to die
getting through another day
sometimes I wonder why
I even make the choice to stay






by Angela Bachmann


skin stretches and pulls against the bones
protruding through my figure, plunging
out like a swan dive
off of the quarry’s edge, elegant and yet
because the starvation is tiring
and the will power left to fuel the swim
to shore is waning away
with the rush of the water against the winds of the land
and each meal mixed up in the blender beneath my ribs
before resurrecting to the place it once began
only this time leaving violently
between convulsions of hurling motions
as my head whips down as a finger
slips free making way
for the stream of self-hate to erase
itself from my body

only it is always there

with each glance at the slim reflection
rippling into the lake
pushing and pushing and pushing and
distorting the reality of my image and
as my figure dances with the waves
I can’t help but to believe
this fragmented, broken being
is the most accurate evidence of my appearance
that I have ever seen






by Angela Bachmann