The destruction is a struggle
but also a desire
and I long for it
more than I ever longed for
anything
in a lifetime.

I admit it..
I'm an attention *****.

I starve myself, even though i know how skinny i am, even though i know 100 lbs is not a lot.

I starve myself so people will notice me.
Talk about me.
Feel bad for calling me all that rude stuff.

For the
"I want her body"
For the
"Did you lose weight"
For the
People who will start caring.

So people will talk behind my back about how i never eat.

But also to have legs to die for, and a waist to love.
To be perfect.

Trigger warning made me smile,
all the bones in my body craved to show,
all the blood in my veins wished to run free.
And then I found myself awake in the middle of the night
wishing for the impossible.

Trigger warning romanticized the struggling,
my blood was red like love,
my hunger made me perfect,
throwing up was liberating,
punching myself were like hugging,
bruises shaped hearts up and down my arms.

Trigger warning reserved a hospital room just for me,
left me unconscious for three days.
Trigger warning taught me how to swallow pills,
how not to eat a thing,
how to keep smiling while bleeding,
where to lay down the blade,
when to lie to my therapist.

Trigger warning makes me cry,
trigger warning leaves me shivering on the bathroom floor,
trigger warning makes my stomach sick,
trigger warning breaks my bones,
trigger warning makes my wrists bleed.

Many people say that love is handing someone else a gun
and point it to your head hopping that they won't pull the trigger.
I didn't gave away my gun,
and now I know I should have,
it would be less dangerous,
because now I spend the nights pointing to my head
hopping that someday I'd have the guts to pull the trigger.

Trigger warning broke my mom's heart,
trigger warning left my body empty and bruised,
trigger warning cut my wings and tied my feet.
Trigger warning made me want to die.

I want to remember
what it feels like
to see my bones
reaching the sky
while i'm stuck in
this rotten pit bottom.

Why is it that when you're sick enough.
Recovery feels like the sickness and the relapses feel like recovery?

Come a little closer and you will soon see
Run your fingers along the cracked parts of me

The cracks etch my thighs, hips, and *******
Each crevice: white, purple, and ruby red

What once was flat and smooth has changed
Bulges and ripples: new landscape

Voices continue to point my flaws out to me
The mirror screams failure; I choose recovery

Previously, these porcelain walls were kept neat
Prim and polished on the inside – pink squeaky clean

Now, this doll is filled with laughter and cheesecake
But the cracks in my mask are all on display

He tells me he loves every part of me
And stretched skin is a part of my story

But I cannot tell if I’m breaking my “perfect” shell
Or if I want to go back to my personal hell

Destruction looks like a statue
and i'm here
staring at it
with the eyes of a child
when they see a brand new toy
even when they own it already.

And then
you look at yourself in the mirror
for the third time
and say:
it smells like ***** still.

I've always hated math, yet numbers take control
The number on the scale, if I reach a goal
I don't really eat food, it's just a number now
It all happens so fast, I just don't know how
Measuring and counting, tracking everything
Feeling satisfaction, instead of suffering
Pain turns to success, that number coming down
Wreaking havoc, turning your life around
Nothing really matters, all I want is bones
But everything's inside, and no one has to know
What starts off as a simple, 2 or 3 pounds
Can leave your pile of bones, rotting in the ground