My mom says,

"You look beautiful today"
She asks "have you lost any weight honey? Here's a salad before you go to work.
You dont want to get fat"

Mom says, life is always easier for skinny girls and that I haven't had it easy so maybe my weight is the problem.

I tell her I'm comfortable.
But as I walk away, I find myself gazing into my bedroom mirror pinching at the fat on my stomach
Wishing it was nothing but paper, because then I could cut it off and maybe then I would be happy and maybe then my mom would think I was good enough.
Mom says, "those leggings aren't flattering on you. And don't you know what people will say about you if you walk around dressed like that? Hide your body. Hide your curves, the world doesn't need to see your fat seeping through those nylon pants. "

I yell back " I don't care what you think! I LIKE THEM"
Mom says "yes you do, I know you do. Now go change and come eat your salad."

I force feed myself a salad for the 5th time this week and change into a baggy sweatshirt and some sweatpants.

I want to believe that I don't care what she thinks but her words feel like bee stings prickling my entire body and no matter how many times they attack, I don't grow numb to them.

I weighed myself today, I lost 5 pounds this week but im starting to feel sick from hunger, I'm light headed.

I head downstairs, the thought of inhaling every carb we have in the kitchen because it's been 2 weeks since ive had one and the cravings are too strong.

Just as I'm about to make some pasta mom comes into the kitchen.

"You look amazing," she says.
"You're so beautiful hunny I'm so proud of you. Wait... is that pasta? What are you doing? If you eat that you'll get fat again. If you're fat you won't be happy. You can't be happy. Put that down. Here's a pill for you hunny"

Take it when you're hungry, it'll take away the cravings and surpress your appetite.

I take the stupid pills that mom seems to think work like magic and I go back up to my room, staring at this body of mine that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

I hate myself.
I hate that I want to eat carbs and I hate that I dream of sugar every night.
I hate that my mom thinks I need a pill to fix who I am, as if I am unlovable when i am not losing weight.
Even as her daughter.

Growing up, we're always taught that our mothers are our protectors...
But I realize now my mother is the reason I never feel like I'm good enough.
I never feel like I'm loveable.

Mother's are suppose to make their daughters feel beautiful and empowered.

I spent my entire childhood on a diet.
To this day, I still hear her voice in my head.
Have a salad honey.
It will be easier if you're skinny.
Change into something else.

I wonder, if this will follow me forever.
If I will always be haunted, by my mother's shame.

I promise though,
If I ever have a daughter,
I will empower her to love herself no matter what.
I will teach her that love isn't based on your waist size and neither is acceptance you can find love at 400 pounds the same way you can at 130 pounds.
I will teach her she is beautiful.
I will make sure that when she grows up, she's not afraid to touch pasta, or have a sweet.
I will teach her, no matter what, SHE IS LOVEABLE. And so are you.. And so am I... I think...

it’s just not fair
feed her your leftover energy
then fuel her with your lifeless stare

and now we behold
this constructed spirit
purposely provided to fit your mould

a hollow container, she’s not alone
but she is conditioned so deeply
to lock up the unknown

who is she?
for now she is a deer

only very few can see
that she is combatting her fear

its one way glass
my eyes are one way glass
the window to my soul

i can see out
but you can’t see in

overflowing and flooding the room
following the glimpse of strength
overcome by the shadow of gloom

trying to understand
is like trying to build a sandcastle
with no sand

dipping in and out of sleep
screaming to be free
until the screams are weakened within me

inside of us
are tiny little buckets
filling up
and watches you grow up

then the slightest thing
makes it spill over
and every crevice of your being
is encompassed by pain

fleeing through the tear ducts
you are temporarily healed

can we live
at the bottom of the toothpaste tube
the part where no one can get you
and no one bothers to use you

i want to roll you up
like a cigarette
and inhale you into my lungs
so you can live there

and when i smoke you
i can still smell you
on my clothes
and in my hair

we are all either survivors
or truly living
too scared to go

the rest found it too painful
to stick around
and felt no fear in giving up

and leaving

I have ten minutes to write this poem
I spare myself ten minutes
Every morning before I leave
Ten minutes to try and just breathe

Ten minutes act like they’re in a race
The one hundred metre sprint
They’re winning, it’s clear to me
They want to escape my life, as fast as they can be

With five minutes to go I look around for inspiration
The cold cup of tea on the table
Winks at me for validation
I remember and drink it til it’s empty

Four minutes to go
Til I become the cup of tea
Desperately urging to evaporate
Silently waiting til one of them drinks me

Lucky me I have two minutes to spare
I’ll finish this poem
I’ll grab my keys, put on my shoes
Arrive at my destination and pretend to care

who put the brakes on
who paused the healing process
paused it to make a quick cuppa
cuppa was never made

shoved in the back of my mind
it’s all piling in
crammed in every crevice
out of my eyes, it spills

that’s an improvement i guess
although i just see it as a loss
control spilling out
whatever is left, i don’t want

how long til my only desire changes
to become tiny and hide away
it’s getting old now
but it’s the only thought that stays