how do you tell someone
you’re losing yourself again
how do you tell the people who love you
you can’t eat anymore
how do you tell them you feel like you’re going to faint every minute of everyday
and all you can do is lay in bed
and when you do get out of bed
the world goes black for a minute
how do you explain the constant headache
the constant pain in your head
not just from the malnourishment
but from the thoughts you can’t stop
the ones you can’t ever slow down
how do you explain that to them

how do you say you’re so completely ******* exhausted of this
that you don’t want any of this
that you resent yourself for thinking this way
but at the exact time
you can’t let go of it
with all the brittle strength inside of you
you can’t get rid of this
so you sit exhausted
during the happiest time of the year
just wishing that this time a year ago
you weren’t like this
life wasn’t this hard
every waking second

a year ago you could get out of bed
you didn’t feel like throwing up every second because you’re migraine is eating away the tiny thing you call your body
every inch of it
a year go you could bring yourself to brush your teeth and take a shower
it didn’t seem like an unbeatable task
it seemed like life
to be frank, you didn’t think twice of it
a year ago

how do you explain
every time you wake up
you miss life
you miss living
because it doesn’t feel like life right now
when you fight with yourself to eat
when nourishing your body seems like a tall feat
life isn’t quite the same
so your life now is dreaming of a life before all this
before every part of your life didn’t seem like a task and a burden
before you pushed everyone away
and locked yourself alone

how do you tell them all this
because i hear it when i say it
how crazy it sounds
i see it in their eyes
when i’m crying about having a sandwich
because the thought of bread and calories makes my whole world collapse
i understand how absurd i sound
i do
don’t worry

so what do i do?
go back to treatment
and have to weigh myself
and take my blood pressure
to see if insurance thinks i’m sick enough to pay to help me get better

do i talk to people about my feelings
because that makes me feel even more crazy

do i tell my therapist
because i haven’t seen her in months
because i was okay for a point of time

or do i call my doctor
so she can tell me that my nausea and migraines are just because i’m not eating enough
and how i’m destroying myself
how dangerous this is

what do i do
tell me
because all that’s keeping me together
the only thing that makes me hold on
is a year ago
when i wasn’t losing myself.

I have this vintage dress
it's green
Silk
Gorgeous
every six months I try it on
every six months it doesn't fit
this time
it fit my waist
but I couldn't fit my arms into it
I tried so hard I ripped it
You must be thinking
Just buy a new dress
But to buy a new dress is to admit I am me
Not the skinny thing I long to be
To buy a new dress
Is admitting they were right
That he was right
That I am just going to be fat and alone forever
so now my focus
is on making my arms slim
arm fat exercises
googled and practiced
I'm going to fit into that dress
even if it kills me
you can bury me in it
I'll be the thinnest prettiest corpse you've ever seen

Counting... Always... Counting.

A cup of herbal tea, maybe with some sugar.
If I feel up to it.

Maybe some soup, grilled cheese.
If I can stomach it.

Dinner. Whatever mom makes.
My only supervised meal.

Tired, all day... Every day.
Drowning in college papers.

The curves I worked so hard to get back...
Well. They're nearly gone.

Protruding hip bones,
Protruding collar bones,
Boney fingers,
Pale skin,
Fantastic figure and pretty ribs,
Cold toes and bad circulation.

Heart murmurs... Shaky breathing... Migraines... Exhaustion... Confusion... Lethargy... Weight loss

Shaking, Shaking, Shaking...
Shivering?

Gotta go make a cuppa, warm up a bit.

But... what's left for me to be healthy for, anyway?

I'll take a bath to warm up instead






Probably.

i never understood the phrase
home is where the heart is
until i was shaking on the floor of
my hospital room and it was nothing
but walls
and even when i found the energy to
decorate with cliché little things
like fairy lights, posters, my
skeletal “art”
i felt the room swallow me whole
until i was nothing but a grain of sand
my new roommate was a wrinkly zucchini-girl
and i tried not to speak to her
but we heard each other cry in the night
and we never said a word
but i could feel her eyes on me
a girl down the hall
heard me talking about my addiction and
she told me she would pray for me
later that day she pushed me
into a wall and pressed her
lips against mine
then told me i was tempting her,
i was a sin
just waiting to happen
so i sat in the dark outside her room every
night before i went to sleep
and sometimes she would
come out
and hold my hands
and tell me she loved me

i'm tired
i'm so ******* tired.
i didn't ask for any of it-
not the scars, not the pills,
not the anxiety
or obsession
or disordered thoughts
i never wanted this.
because when you're thirteen
you don't think that within the next three years
you'll have four mental illnesses.
nobody ever predicts that they'll have a collection of cuts,
of failed recoveries
and subsequent relapses.
nobody wants to be a burden.
nobody wants to be trapped in their own mind
and i can't tell if it's depression,
or the eating disorder
but God, i'm exhausted.
i don't want to carry this anymore.
(i never did.)

My lover has a scar
Just above her hipbone;
It's not a small ****,
a forgotten accident.
They're words -
Straight lines she etched
Deliberately,
Slowly,
Painfully.

I trace my fingers softly,
Not to wake my love,
But I can't soften their bite.
Words of cruel warning,
An order, imperative.
Commanding, even faded,
Echo a silent scream.

They mock me, mock us,
For they still have a hold:
She is only half mine.
They hurt me, cold,
Like unblinking eyes,
Knowing that she stares back
Every day.

I barely brush them,
Intruders on soft skin,
Indelible scripture
Of darkness within.

And they keep whispering:
don't eat.

I fashioned myself a dress of black lace;
Dark and elegant, epitome of grace;
Soft on my skin, caress like a lover's,
My comfort, my design, a haven of covers.

They called it macabre - filled them with unease;
Dangerous, they said, termed it a disease.
And yes, I'm unwell, but darkness is my veil -
A reprieve from hell, solace without fail.
I am the tailor, the sculptor of shadows,
The reaper of melancholy my art sows.
And yes, it is odd, fragile, morose -
The marble thorns of an obsidian rose.

The judging whispers that follow in my wake,
Can't comprehend I do this for my sake:
The sharp edges they call jarring and cold -
They are my palace, impenetrable stronghold.

Where others see emptiness, I notice lace,
The gossamer threads of a misty embrace;
They are but blind to the kingdom of nothing,
Only see moats, and wall canons jutting.
My castle of ghosts, the court I control,
Those remain hidden, deep in my soul.
The siren song, my foggy lullaby,
The velvety clouds on which my thoughts lie.
It is morphium, made in my mind
Embroidered dullness only I can find.
The words bounce off my protective bubble,
Your bombs shatter into a gray rubble.
I blow it away, along with my fears,
I got good at this, during the years.

Give me some credit, I am no fool,
Where others would drown, I can rule;
I know not to freeze, when water's too cool,
The fire you'd burn in, I use as fuel.

Yes, it's a thin line, I know it best,
But I'm a trapeze-artist, can pass the test;
A veteran of trade, the air is my nest,
I've learned to live without getting rest.

And I know my limits, how far I can press,
Worry you not, I've survived on much less.
I'm not glass, disperse your concerns,
If need be, the lace to razor wire turns.