"Loosing weight is weird" I think as I stare at my naked body in the bathroom mirror.
I don't feel how I thought I would. My anticipated joy had turned to relief, a burden I no longer had to bear.
My soul has always been chaotic-always waging wars against itself, so of course this too would bring conflict.
The clothes that clung snug to my skin are now too baggy. Clothes I finally felt confident after years of searching for what worked, what didn't, what was flattering, what wasn't.
And now I'm looking up how to shrink everything
And my ******* aren't as full..
sloping and drooping down without being rounded by fat;
like tissues stuffed in a bra that's just slightly too big.
Not to sound ungrateful, because I love this new body (it's an answer to prayer really; taking away the edge of my insecurities) but I suppose it feels a little foreign.
Like a best friends house you practically grew up in: completely memorized in its familiarity; marked by memories, a home away from home, but still not the place you called "home".
And I spent so long learning how to love this body; accepting her flaws, her imperfections, but never quite convincing myself, only to have to relearn again.
And in some ways that makes me...sad?
I don't have another word for it.
Maybe it's a grieving, for the part of me that was a part of me for so long; a part I scolded and criticized.
And I hate myself at times.
Because I was my own bully-projecting my insecurities with verbal lashings.
All because I had this idea that if I was prettier, skinnier, I would feel more wanted and less alone...that it was the missing piece to my happiness.
And the assumed projections of strangers thoughts bombarded me into thinking there was truth in those hauntings,
because somewhere down the line, at an unknown moment in my subconscious, beauty became abundant.
I should get used to this changing skin, because life and age will always be forcing it to keep up, to adapt; It will continue to expand and sag and wrinkle and crease.
And I hope I can learn to love those foreign bodies too, though not so unfamiliar....
                           just unplaced.

I'm mad at God
I've never been mad at him before
Always understanding and patient
I never questioned the purpose of the pain

The purpose of pain
I'm sure there is one
but I am tired
It is the same thing and I find myself trapped in a cycle of insanity
What is the purpose? What is the lesson? What am I missing?

I'm mad at God
Maybe mad is the wrong word
Frustrated. Hurt. Exhausted. Angry.
But not mad.
Its not so much a place of casting blame
but rather "what do you want from me!?"

How much longer will I have to endure?
How much longer will I have to cry out?
When will I see an answer?
You don't play mind games
and yet I am currently unconvinced of this

Unconvinced I have received any sort of healing
only led to believe so
"I don't know" has been a phrase I've said the most

So yes perhaps I am mad at God.
I don't know what else to feel when one is falling apart, even if they are falling into place.
The pain is still the same.

no words.

I have no words

though I suppose by saying I don't I do.

No clever alliteration. No poetic narrative.

Just hollowness

and a heavy head

And a want to cry, but the tears wont come.

Noah Kahan is right.

I filled the hole in my head

Forgot how to cry

but the pain still exists

and nothing is different

i thought if i reached the end, everything would be better

but its all the same.

I feel like I'm losing everyone
Or maybe I never really had anyone

C                                                                ­                           R
          L                                                    ­               E
                      U                T
                      ­                                            T
Clutter in my Room
Clutter in my mind
I stare at the piles unsure of where to start
Every item I pick up brings waves of anxiety so I move to another
but one thought plucked brings two more to the surface
Anxious overthinking and worrying about made up familial death
I.
Don't
       Know
                How
                           To
                                  Be
                         ­               Better...
My shovel is hitting stone, convinced I'll find gold
Day by day, stuck in the mundane waring with flesh and spirit
The solution should be easy but its not

And the guys I want don't want me
And I'm writhing in my bed in agony over my disfigured figure
Staring at the fun house mirror with my grey-tinted glasses
Uneven curves and lumps.

And I question the way others see me
I question conversations
I question intentions as actions fail to follow the spoken
And I feel so so alone

Support beams rotting
I'm passing through with the cold
I don't feel like a blessing
I'm nothing special
I just feel so isolated
Surrounded by clusters of people and I don't have the courage to walk up to one without feeling like a foreigner in my second home.
and when I do it is just as easy to abandon the attempt
I'm the last student in a game of team-up glancing around to see who chance has left me with...I never thought this feeling would continue well into my twenties...

And I know its all just the chemicals but no man will ever understand how this feels and no woman either...
So old and still feeling like a kid who never outgrew the growing pains.
It still hurts. All the **** time.

They called her basic
As though it was such a a bad thing to be
But it was not bad at all.
For how could it be bad to like what millions like in turn?
To have something in common with those around you?
There must be something great about those things for millions to pursue them
So to the girl apologizing for her vanilla latte...
No, to be basic isn't so bad.

Crying is supposed to make you feel good
If that's the case then I suppose I am always trying to feel better