I'm fairly certain that my voice
just went into the trash
along with my last cigarette that you just threw away
because I suddenly can't talk
and my chest is tightening with fear
at the thought of not tasting another kiss from nicotine.

They say if you want to know
what someone is afraid of losing,
pay attention to what they photograph.
Maybe that's why I take so many pictures
of you and I together.

One full bowl of chilli,
at least two dozen saltines,
one hot dog, and
two handfuls of chips later,
I vow not to eat tomorrow.
I had two small chicken tenders
and a bottle of carbonated orange juice at lunch,
and half an hour later
I was hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tasted of stomach acid and regret.
I ate once yesterday
and the same thing happened.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same the only thing on my mind
is how much I regret eating so much.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same
I find a strange sort of comfort
in knowing that I'm at least strong enough to control my appetite.
I know it's unhealthy,
I know it can **** me,
but all the same I can't get enough
of this self-hatred
spilling out of my mouth,
tinted with the taste of last hour's meal.

It isn't until
I'm hunched over in a bathroom stall
and my mouth tastes like stomach acid
that I realise I'm not better
and I'm not sure I want to be.

when you hear your alarm go off the first time,
and then the second time,
and the third you finally open your eyes to
find yourself surrounded by the same four walls as yesterday -
it's okay if you press snooze again.
it's okay to go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're putting on your mascara,
and then your eyeliner,
and all the other crap that makes you feel pretty -
it's okay if you cry it all off.
it's okay to go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're putting on your favourite jeans,
and your comfy sweater,
and they just don't fit the same as they used to
because you're not the same as you once were -
it's okay to try something different.
it's also okay to just go back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you're walking down the hallway to your first class,
and then your second one and it's all just as dreadful,
and you can't concentrate on anything other than
just picking up one foot after the other, just getting there -
it's okay to just be present physically for today, if that's all you can manage.
but maybe, it would be okay if you just went back to bed today.

but you don't.

when you get home and your mom calls you for dinner,
once, twice, and three times,
but you're just not hungry and you're not sure you can
keep up the stone face you've been wearing all day -
it's okay to ask her to save some for you to have later.
just go back to bed, just give yourself some room to breathe.

but  you don't.

every day, you fight the same battle.
and if it feels like you're not making any progress,
just remember that you didn't go back to bed -
and you could have -

**but you didn't.

The first time a blade danced across my skin,
blood dripping from my open wounds like stagnant springwater,
a pain that I can mark as real, as consistent, as constant,
a promise of friendship stained a deep red,
I fell in love with self-mutilation.
The first time I skipped a meal,
first time I saw the thin frame of a girl all skin and bones,
all pointed curves and sharp edges,
I fell in love with self-destruction.
The first time I tasted nicotine on my teeth,
ash dropping to the floor and crumbling,
my demons lit up with my lighter
I fell in love with the taste of what I knew would **** me.
The first time I skipped my stomach meds,
later that night, I threw up everything good I thought about myself,
and I fell in love with self-hatred.
When I was taken off of Prozac,
I sobbed because he was my best friend who made me
so much ******* worse and I loved every second of it.
The first (and only) time I attempted suicide,
saw the innermost layers of my own skin
dripping with adrenaline and fear,
I fell in love with the bleak hospital walls
as I lied in a bed, watching this ****** poking and prodding at my arm,
stitching my pain silent-
no, no, don't- just let me die here, ******!
let me slice myself into oblivion,
it's not like anybody would miss me, anyway.
The first time I slept with a man,
a 27 year old,
the man who felt like a better father than the man I called "dad",
who was there when nothing else was but my razor,
I was 11, and I didn't realise what it meant
to give yourself to somebody so completely.
All I knew was that I was in love with him,
and that an experienced, older man
meant that *** felt really ******* good.
I presume that was when I fell in love
with the physical aspect of relationships
and for a long time, those physical aspects were all I saw.
The first time I penned my frustrations and hate,
raw and naked and painful,
in the form of an apologetic suicide letter,
I fell in love with the way I could romanticise pain.
I must have a notebook full of those by now.
but the first time I saw you...
I fell in love with the way you could silence my hate
without lifting a finger,
your stormy grey eyes that recognised I was seen and heard by everyone but myself,
your arm that I could grab onto so easily
because I knew in some way that it could stop me from falling to my demise,
your voice that could drown out all of my demons that swim around
in my mind,
that for the longest time have been trying to **** me,
I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with the honesty I found in you,
with the cold fingers that interlaced with mine perfectly,
the way my head fits on your shoulder.
I fell in love with the way you stood by my side
and pulled out your own rusted sword,
said, "I'll fight with you."
The suffering was definitely worth the reward
when it comes to what us being together put people through.
You've seen almost every side of me,
you've seen me consumed by hatred,
anger, rage, laughter, fear, joy, love,
slit wristless and bare skinned,
and yet, you stay.
You've got a few parts of a soul,
I've got a few pieces of a heart...
Let's make eachother whole.

Ana,
I used to play with you when I was younger.
I remember you were so proud
the first time I weighed 125,
I guess those stomach problems came in handy
for keeping you by my side,
I'd go days without eating,
and you'd smile.
I never let you influence me too much, though...
Not until now.
I've always had you on my mind.
You are inherently deadly,
you are addictive in your toxicity.

I'm not hungry.

I can't help but wonder when Mia
will get me on my knees again.

I'm not hungry.

I'm one of those people who
******* about romanticising mental illness
and eating disorders, yet here I am,
giving a name to you.

I'm not hungry.

All the poems about how my razor
takes my blood and breath but gives me life,
but I've written none about you for a while.
Blood drips from my arms and thighs
and, pinching the soft, scarred skin,
I think of you.

I'm not hungry.

You are a decidedly perfect example
of deadly willpower.
You are one of my several methods
of self-destruction
and yet another thing for me to fall in love with,
I am an addict itching for a bit
of self-hatred, and you are an easy fix.

I'm not hungry.

Maybe if I was just a little bit thinner,
then maybe I'd get there.

*I'm not hungry...