Down the hall and through the kitchen
There's the litterbox
The one that has the map of cracks
From holding a decade of your weight
Down the hall and through the glass
Two chairs hold the ghosts of you
Cushions still sculpted into the shape of your sleep
The sun used to bathe you there
Finding the specks hidden in your dull green eyes
The sun still finds your chair, no longer having you to warm
Down the hall and to the right
Is the kitchen table that never saw a day without you
Every sunrise, you'd be there
Pleading to be fed
Either under or on top of
You were always there
Down the hall and through the living room
Is where the couches I wish we still had were
The sides torn up from you clawing at them
Next to them lies a scratchpad
The one that you never bothered to touch
Down the hall and into a room
Lies the bed where you sat and stared
The day she was brought in from the hospital
Three days old
The one who can't remember life without you
The one who doesn't know life without you
Her laptop constantly casts a glow onto her face
As she scrolls through images, reminders of you
Your sister
Down the hall and into another room
Sits the man who you considered the perfect chair
The one who has his laptop open
He can't get away from work, though maybe the distraction is welcome
His gallery is filled with the blurry selfies
Of him holding on to you
Your father
Down the hall and to the left
Lies a woman curled up in bed
The one who measured her days by making sure you were fed
Who held you up when you were too weak to stand
The one you laid on as you took your final breaths
Her breaths melting into your hushing ones
Your mother
Down the hall and far behind these walls
Up the country
Is the woman who claimed to not want the burden of your paws
The one who loved you anyway
The one who you slept with at night
The one who couldn't be here when you left
Your grandmother
We share the marks left behind by you, carved into our skin
The house is held together with scars
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 4:03 PM UTC
I had cookies after lunch
I had it, to tell myself
I could do it
I could eat cookies
and not think about the numbers
I could eat cookies
and not stare into the toilet bowl
I couldn’t do it
I looked into the toilet bowl
Reached into my mouth
And pulled it out
With slow and painful shoves
Though slow,
The way it happens
Is expedited
But it’s not enough
It’s never enough
The inside of the toilet bowl is stained with regret
The inside of my guts are still full of regret
But I cant get it out
It stays
I couldn’t do it
I don’t know when my food
Started tasting like regret
And looking like numbers
I miss how it made me feel
When my parents got me a donut
The smell of the warm bread
The feel of the chocolate between my fingers
I could eat 2 at once
And not give it a second thought
All 2 donuts are now
Is 500
500 too many
500 more of regret
I don’t want to think about the numbers
On the scale
Of my food
The number of scars I’ve painted on my thigh
I’ve never preferred math
Nov 1, 2024
Nov 1, 2024 at 1:19 PM UTC
When will it stop?
The constant, confusing whiplash
Of hatred
Of acceptance
Of compelled shoving fingers down your throat
Of etching paintings into your skin, with a pointed brush
If only to release
When will it stop?
The hypocrisy of trying to help someone
When you can barely help yourself
Sitting in front of a screen, telling them it'll all be fine
But you have a blade in your hands
And a finger in your throat
When will it stop?
The vicissitude of everyday
Blythe simplicity on one
Slowly killing yourself the next
The good days, I'm able to have a painful relationship with food
Thinking, but not acting
Even if for an hour
For that hour, I am whole and I am free
But the bad days, silent ruminations engulf my head
Of painting scarlet
And expelling
When will it stop?
The compulsions taking over me
Oct 31, 2024
Oct 31, 2024 at 4:07 PM UTC