In the absence of fullness
Poems by Angelina Ong on self-image, control, and the long path towards healing.
Background: “In Scavenger, I sift through fragments of myself, trying to make sense of the parts left scattered by my battles with disordered eating. The Architect speaks to the mental cage I've built-constructed from the rigid expectations that trap me, even though I am the one who put them in place. Nothing Tastes Better is my internal tug-of-war, a painful questioning of Kate Moss' mantra that thinness is worth more than fullness or freedom. in Swallow, I focus on the ache that lives in my throat, a physical manifestation of the restraint and struggle I carry daily. Hungry Ghosts draws on the imagery of Chinese folklore, comparing my endless cycles of binging and purging to spirits who are never satisfied - a haunting reminder of my roots and my present. each poem reflects a part of my journey, revealing the weight of expectations I've placed on myself and my struggle to let go and find peace within. I hope you enjoy” - Love, Angelina.
TW: Eating Disorders, Bulimia.
Swallow
it starts as a scratch, a quiet burn,
a thread pulled tight down the throat,
coarse and raw, an ember lodged
that won’t dim, won’t let go.
i wear the ache like bruises wear skin
the soft scrape a warning,
a fault line just beneath the surface.
sometimes i think i can feel it —
the walls thinning, the flesh worn bare,
a single thread holding it all.
i close my eyes and wait for the split,
for the burst that may come.
fear nestled deep in the hollow.
each breath tastes like iron,
the voice a jagged sound,
and i wonder how much the body can take —
how much can pass through
before there’s nothing left to swallow.
Scavenger
i am the house, half-empty,
doors left swinging wide,
where night birds come to roost
and claw their way back out—
nails scraping walls i’ve polished clean.
the mouth unhinges
gaping like a cellar left to ruin,
each hunger a stray, relentless,
crawling in, then flushed out —
an echo eating its own sound.
once, i knew how to bind the ribs,
hold still the searing pulse,
to own the hollow with a kind of grace.
now it devours the quiet
in gulps and gasps, raw-throated,
and i am left clutching
at what i can no longer keep.
these days, i drift like dust, unsettled,
swept up, spit out,
the body a vessel emptied and filled —
a ritual without redemption,
where i am both feast and famine,
scavenger and the spoils.
The architect
i build it up
brick by shifting brick
walls too narrow, ceilings too high
inside the floors press down,
the beams close in,
tight as breath caught between ribs.
this isn’t for them
(the eyes outside looking in).
their thoughts dissolve like smoke
beyond these walls.
i am the architect and the captive,
stacking standards like stones
each one heavier, each one higher,
a staircase i ascend alone
feet slipping on my own demands.
in the dark i walk those rooms,
haunted by echoes of my own voice
measuring spaces i’ll never fill
reaching for corners that recede
each time i draw near.
and so i live within this house,
its walls closing tighter, tighter —
a place built for no one but me.
Hungry ghosts Ah ma would tell me tales of guǐ, hungry ghosts drifting through walls, mouths open wide, forever wanting, forever starved for what they can’t hold. I wonder if they hover near, spirits of craving I know too well — the ache that sits behind each bite, a shadow lurking in an empty bowl. She taught me to savor each kǒu, to fill myself with warmth and rice, to honor the gift of fullness. But now I eat like a ghost myself, each bite a wary balance, a fear of plenty, a need for less. Sometimes I see them in the mirror, these hungry ghosts with hollow eyes, and wonder if they, too, once held a bowl heavy with the weight of love and let it go, bit by bit unable to trust that they deserved the comfort they were given. glossary: Ah ma - grandmother guǐ - ghost kǒu - mouthful
Nothing tastes better
a promise lingers, clean and sharp
a taste I try to savor,
a lightness I’m told is sweet enough,
a hunger held tight as truth.
i wear it like armor,
this weightless ache,
an empty thrill i try to believe
could fill what i’ve left hollow.
but there’s a bitterness beneath
something that won’t settle
and a faint sweetness i almost remember
a richness lost with each bite denied.
so i’m here, in the in-between
half-believing, half-letting go
caught between craving and fear
wondering if fullness might ever feel
as light as letting go.