More often than not I wake up in the morning wishing that I could shed this body like a second skin. If only it were that easy. As if I wear my shame like a jacket that I can unzip and toss over my chair when I get home. As if it were not a seed whose roots have grown deep in my skin, and crept their way into my veins. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve been ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, all I can seem to think of is how long it will take for her fingers to recoil. I wonder when she will realize that her hands don’t like the bumpy texture of my flesh. That my skin doesn’t hug my bones quite like it should. That I’ve got curves in all the wrong places. I wonder how long it will take for her to see me the way that I see myself. I know that I’m sick. It’s a disease without a cure. No matter how much you refuse to eat, it will always eat away at you. There is no running from this. You must lie down. And as she kisses your neck and reaches for your thigh, pull her closer. Let her know you trust her. Let her trace your bumpy flesh like hills and valleys, let her wander. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve ben ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, I let her.  Because this is how we learn to love ourselves. This is how we heal.

What can be more painful than a raging soul?
A body full of scars
A body drowned in suffering;
Dysmorphic image of a broken soul
So thin ,so close to nothing ,
So broken ,so close to sorrow
In pain, the body lies
The inked image of this broken heart.
Write poems not scars in thy skin,
Scripted history, the body is your friend.

they said that my collarbones
was a fascinating sight,
my bones looks as if they're dying to escape
like how words fall from my mouth.
so i avoided things that could fill me
and satisfied myself with the feeling of hollow.
maybe the one can effortlessly lift me
as we kiss in the pouring rain
and i would never have to squeeze lemons
into a fabric again.
my bones will form a sharp edge
preventing people from hurting me again
and someday, i will feel safe.

although there would be nights
of scratching my skins and biting my lips
until i can taste again - a sense i havent used in days.
there would be pain from the center
i will cry but they will stay.
because people only likes to touch beautiful & frail things.
the more ethereal you look,
the more they'll handle you with care
and thats the saddest truth i learned.

i will continue to make myself look like a stick
so maybe people will stick with me.

when i was little,
i cried because i wanted It.

It being the crisp sound of fulfillment
that keeps the black hole in the middle of my body quite.
i wanted, i needed It.
sometimes the black hole
would turn red as lava
and it would feel like a volcano
wanting to erupt
but the thing is,
it doesn't have anything to force out.
and i do not like the feeling.

i woke up today
and my mind was a shade of blue.
i don't quite remember
drinking 10 bottles of anesthesia
to feel this pale.
every crack on the pavement
looks like a long razorblade
that would cut my foot if i step on it.
here comes the habit of right first then left,
counting the leaves of my neighbor's bush,
and the amount of C's i swallow
because everything should be even.
2,4,6,8
only that to relieve the ache
because you are what you eat
and who wants to be odd?

there in my bed,
i wonder if the rain is infused with anesthetics
and the black hole erupting
is the only pain i am feeling.
and i like the feeling.

now im older,
i cried because i do not want It.

She stares at her reflection.
Recognizes her distorted perception.

Evil whispers fill her head
Self criticism is the only part that wants to be fed.

She's made huge leaps, fought her way,
And continues fighting for recovery to stay.

Never felt
he comes here now
it hurts a lot
Its easier to drop it
Please stop it
i can't love....
you wouldn't love me if...

I long for touch but yet I flinch when someone gets too close.
I suppose it's the feeling of fear that overcomes me.
Or the voices that flood my memory of the people saying 'You'll never be pretty enough and your soul is too dark.'
I guess I'll just spend my days basking in the wretched comments and the feeling of never being good enough.
I'm displeased when I look in the mirror, and I start to understand what the people say.
Maybe get some surgery and all of the pain will go away.
But even if I did that the rude remarks would still be there.
And I'd still be heavy with all of the weight on my shoulders.

where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated

i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers

barriers create madness

walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back

i can’t breathe

there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration

i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.