Confession:
I wanted to fill your mouth with red roses
I wanted to string daisies and words through your golden hair
We were princesses growing up
Or at least, we pretended we were
The forest behind our house was the only palace we knew
It was the only place we could feel pretty.

Confession:
I never hated you like I said I did
When we got into our big fights
After you told everyone I drained my body of it's red wine
Into the bathtub by the means of a blade.
You may have been malicious in your intentions
Or you may have been a kid who had no idea what to do
I will always choose the latter.

Confession:
Overdose felt like that razor was dancing across my forearm
Once again.
They could have been the same
When the news cut through my eardrum
I didn't feel anything
I didn't cry at first
But I drove for hours
Occasionally screaming that this couldn't be real
A feeling only an experienced cutter would know
Like a familiar old friend.

Confession:
I peaked when
Mom told me not to look at you
As your body lie face up in that wooden bed
With ***** marks from the witch's needle
Covering your arm like black and blue paint.
She said you looked sick
She said you didn't look like yourself
Because you weren't.
But you were still the same kind of beautiful
You had always been
Even in your illness
Even in your addiction
Even in your silence.

I was never vindictive towards you,
Yet somehow, I wish I had been.
I saw you for seven grueling years
After the attack.
Endured every flashback, every pang of anxiety.
I would not let you get alone with me, however.
I guess in that way,
I was smart enough to get by.

Crying in my pillow
Screaming at the walls
Lashing out on others
But mostly at myself.
Yet I never once wished to harm you.
Some days I wish to want to.
But I don't.
I can't.
And I hate myself for it.

You had Asberger syndrome
And I was a child.
So who is accountable here?
I guess it is just easier to take this pain on by myself.

My parents could have sheltered me,
I suppose.
But whenever my brain creeps into that region
Of blaming them even a little bit
I feel like a *******.
They did not know, could not have known
Could they?

"*******!"
I'll belt, but it's never directed at you
Like it should be.
I say it to myself, and after my voice breaks
And I fall to my knees, sobbing
The rest goes something like
"You could have stopped it.
What the hell were you thinking?
This is your fault."

Intellectually?
I know I'm not to blame.
I was seven,
How could I have known better?

But emotionally?
All of that logic goes out the window.
I beat the crap out of myself for it.
I should have protected myself
Should have been protected
And I guess, somehow
I should have been able to control that.
I still need that control, I crave it
And I still need somebody to blame.

Who am I?
Trapped in this lifeless figurine
No getaway, no exit
I simply drag myself through these daily activities
But why?
Is it in order to
Impress everyone else?
To show them that I can do it
To abandon some long established inferiority complex?
Maybe, maybe.
And yet, and I am still bound
By life's broken lines and timed events.
I'm spinning a web of lies,
Thoughts like
"I'm okay"
"I can do this"
Spill from my faucet-like mouth
But really?
I'm getting tangled up in all of it.
Too bad suicide is not an option,
Self-harm is not an option,
Escape is not an option.
And therefore,
I remain caged in this labyrinth,
The deserted ruins of something resembling
A borrowed and ****** body
And my shallow and sorry soul.

It is so shameful how we spend life
Asleep at the wheel
Making less than a conscious attempt
To break free from our situation.

The day you left this Earth
Your exceptional and passionate life was taken
I heard your heart hit the floor
And I look up to the sky
Expecting to see you soaring.

You lived so loudly
And left me star struck.
So what is it supposed to feel like
When you are gone?
Even now, I will pass something
Do a certain activity
Hear a certain song, a phrase
And think about you.

Has it been five months already?
That's almost half a year
And for some reason, that kills me.
Maybe I've been stuck in September
Or somewhat comatose in my own skin.
The shell I've been dying to shed for just about forever.

Have you heard my screams?
The day I got the call
The day I passed out
The endless days of panic attacks
Stuck between those foreboding cycles
Of endless days and sleepless nights.

I do not expect you to be watching over me.
You should be guarding
Your siblings
Your girlfriend
Your parents.
I hope you brought the party to heaven
And God is lucky to have you as his guest.

Sometimes, I still hear your laugh
See your smile
And I am ever so grateful that
I was lucky enough to know you
And I will keep your memory alive
By really living
And not just being on standby.

With the
Desire the purge
Craving to cut
Need for escape

And the
Opportunity to drown out
My body's grievances
Why wouldn't I?

I'd be lying if I said
I haven't done it
I didn't have have weak days
My body doesn't ache for that
Lovely and disgusting
Physiological quench.

And yet they tell me
I'm lazy
I don't do enough
It doesn't matter that
I'm on my feet for eleven or twelve hours at a time every day
I'm working my *** off
I'm still recovering from an eating disorder.
But no, it doesn't matter
I still have no right to complain in their minds.

But wait**
I am a pretty good secret keeper
Sometimes.
Is it possible that
I am too talented at keeping my emotions locked away?
Maybe, just maybe,
They just don't *know.

Addiction.
no one quite knows
how to define it.
for one in the throws of this.
is it Beautiful
or is it Vile?
Selfless
or is it Vain?
one can only speculate.

Recovery.**
another riddle
with a hint of ambiguity
that a person can only
hope to determine the meaning of.
Painful
or Freeing?
Pointless
or Meaningful?
i can never tell
if it is only here for a season
and leaves just as easily.
just as swiftly.

as for now
i am still a prisoner, held captive
to this paradox.

A sharp edge takes courage
But dull blades sting more.

I've always hated hospitals.
White walls, plain and bare
With those glaring, unforgiving linoleum floors
What am I doing here?
I am not ill
But my parents always used it as a threat
When I panicked
Or when I was just upset as a young child.
It has been embedded into my brain that
"This is where the bad kids go."
And I'll just get passed from doctor to doctor
Because no one wants to handle me.
So now the stench of sickness
Smells more like a jail cell.

Can you see my tears?
Welling behind hot and swollen eyes
They push and ****, hoping to escape
But I will not let them.
They are eager little monsters
And it takes all of my strength not to burst.

Can you hear my screams?
In the middle of the night
After drunken decisions
And hungover memories
That's when my flashbacks hit the hardest.
So, I shriek
But it falls on deaf ears
They either are not audible
Or people choose to overlook my
Lonely disposition.

Can you ******* air?
It is creeping and crawling
Drenched in sweat.
Salty and metallic flavors collide inside my mouth
As if some sort of blood began to flow
In one place that I wish it would not.

Can you smell my fear?
They say in dogs it reeks
A certain poignant stink.
In me, what is the scent?
Does it seep through my skin
And secrete out of my pores?
I feel myself trembling
I am not able to escape.

Can you feel my pain?
I want to send you signals
Tell you I am not okay
Or am I okay?
I just want to know
I just want to hold on a little longer
I just want you to notice
Please tell me, just once,
"We can talk if you want to."
And mean it.

They cannot see these
Classic and obvious signs.
They do not know.
They do not care
They do not  **listen.

"Don't purge"
they say
"It only makes it worse."
Oh, if only they knew.

That rush,
that physiological sensation
that accompanies the mental one
is all I need to breathe.
So why must it be wrong?

The calming motion
of sticking your fingers down your throat
until you gag
until you cannot breathe
until you feel that acidity
crawling up your throat
as a demon emerges from Hell's depths.

It is as if you are allowing a well-kept secret
an abundance of pain
to be released
to meet catharsis.

So necessary,
from an inside perspective.
So beautiful,
from an artistic one.
So cold,
from any sane person looking in.
They can never understand
how crucial it is in fighting the breakdowns
that plague my life under stressful circumstances.

I know,
it is hard for you to believe
or comprehend.
But this
painful yet pleasing obsession
is keeping me calm, keeping me okay.
And, quite possibly,
keeping me alive
month after month
week after week
day after painful day.

I have evolved due to the pain of this world
Or that is what I would like to believe
But what if, maybe
I have not changed at all?
Perhaps
I have always been this way
Perhaps
The thought that
I could keep every meal down
Was an illusion
Am I a prisoner of circumstance
Or a product of my own mistakes?
I simply do not know.

No one begins purging
In hopes of becoming an addict
In hopes of falling from grace
In hopes of having every bit of control
Stripped from your being
Caused by the one thing
That you hoped would give you control.

I started
Because everything was being taken away
I was out of coping skills
And I needed to get a handle on my life again.
The stress was unbearable
And still is.

I did not expect
That I could not stop
That even if I wanted to
Holding my meals down would not only
Present a mental challenge
But a physical one as well.

My mouth waters when my body wants to purge
Everything I eat
I think of how it will feel coming up.
I have lost friends, have isolated myself
My voice has suffered
My grades have slipped
My emotions are not in my control
I do not sleep through the night.

Who is this person
Or lack there of?
As if I was not already a vacant ruin
Of a once pleasant human being
I have now managed to be the reason
That she is losing everything she ever loved.

For two people
Who have dealt with
Eating disorders
We talk about food
More than anyone
I have ever met.