You are the farthest thing from perfection
which must be why I think about you
when doing the most mundane things,
making coffee or washing laundry,
playing guitar or scrolling through tumblr.
I look over at my computer screen,
the FaceTime call we have open 24/7 (literally),
you're biting your nails, intently watching a video
and then you look over and smile at me,
call me your sweetheart.
Taking in the way your lips tighten and curl around your teeth
(especially the one shark tooth you don't like)
when you grin,
the way your eyes crinkle and your hair falls into place
around your jawline,
You're the farthest thing from perfect,
but you're perfect for me.

When I came back to school after being ill
and I got an ungodly amount of compliments on my weight,
something inside me sparked
my heart was beating so hard I thought it would stop
and I got a taste of a kind of happiness that I hadn't felt in a while-
happiness with myself.
Eventually the feeling subsided
as my meds were rearranged
switched around
dosages altered, types differed
and I started eating more again
and gained the weight back.
Now at 141 pounds
my mind is preoccupied
with daily fat and calorie intakes,
I keep reminding myself that
my stomach isn't growling,
it's applauding my strength and willpower
only giving in to the desire to eat
when I start to fall over.
1 sandwich,
turkey, lettuce, whole grain bread,
180 calories.
First and last thing today...
I promise.

My life is a whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs,
those I've loved and lost
and what I've gained from screaming from the tops of buildings
after no one salutes to these ideas
that I've run up the flagpole outside.

All hipbones and collarbones,
Size 1 and 0, long flowing hair and gauges,
thigh gap and flat stomach,
you are beautiful.
All dry skin and yellow teeth,
Size 12 and 13, short, plain hair,
touching thighs and rounded stomach,
I am "beautiful" to everyone but myself.
I will be strong.
I will be stronger.
I will exercise more,
I will eat less,
I will be thinner.
Once I've lost 40 pounds,
then I might get the help everyone says
I so desperately need,
diet healthily
and work with somebody.
Until then, I will suffer through...
...because that shows strength,
and eating shows weakness,
weakness in myself.
Calories should be a foreign substance,
not an old friend,
chewing and swallowing sometimes hurts worse
than a **** lemon-juice papercut.
800 calories over my budget every **** day
when my budget is already too high?
That shows no strength.
500 calories under?
THAT shows strength.
Shows willpower.
Shows endurance.
That is what will make me thinner.
I'm setting my budget to 500 instead of 1000,
because hey,
less is more, right?

My sense of self
is defined
by what I eat
what happens afterwards
and by the scars on my skin
and on my heart
that I was told would heal,
but were meant to bleed,
and by the way you hold me
closely
like I am your answer,
and the fact that I wrote so many words
for my ex-boyfriend that I have none left for myself,
but I seem to have an abundance for you.
My sense of self is defined
by the whirlwind of passing daydreams
and photographs that surround me
and pieces of other peoples' poems...
pieces of my own poems that I barely remember writing.
When the sun sets behind the horizon
cuts through the sky and fades
into starlight and haze
I inhale twilight
and exhale tranquility.
Late night loaded plates
and bathroom trips
early morning cigarettes
and paper cups of caffeine
more sugar than coffee.
Afternoon poetry and photographs
smiles and laughs
followed by midnight bloodshed
and silence,
by my recovery.
My sense of self is defined by
what I love
and by who loves me
by the words and stomach acid
that roll off my tongue
and the heave of my chest
during laughter and after dinner,
by the tears shed by my eyes
and my skin,
the way that I bury my face in your chest,
the toxicity and twilight
that I inhale
the smoke, vapour, tranquility
that I exhale
the popping of my spine
and of alcohol bottles
the hiss of a pipe
and the way they say my dreams
go up in smoke,
I say the smoke spells in the air
the words of my future novels
and poems.

I can not even begin to explain
how badly I want to spend my days
with raindrops trailing my windows
blank notebooks, and cigarettes
and my nights
with moonlit dances
and dark rooms illuminated by computer screens.