Dearest Ana,
You’re in my head.
Dearest Ana,
And people said
This won’t end well.
Dearest Ana,
You always yell
I’m not good enough.
Dearest Ana,
But it’s too tough
Now it’s hard.
Dearest Ana,
I use shards
Glass metal and others alike.
Dearest Ana,
They cut and stab and slice
It’s your fault,
Dearest Ana,
That I want to halt
Give me courage,
Dearest Ana,
To turn my last page.

are the tattoos I etched
to mark my recovery.

And boy, did it hurt.

The white squiggles at my hips
wink at me every time I look down.
Don't look down!
As if.
I swear, they conspire with each other.

I'll never forget the very first one.
Shiny. Indignant.
I hugged my skeleton and wept.

Now I've grown accustomed
not to the deliberate finality of dropping my gaze
mesmerized by my slow evolution,
but to looking up.

I look at eyes and mouths
instead of the impossible circumferences
above my knees,
the ever shifting law.

Stretch marks
are the tattoos I etched
to mark my recovery.

Do I regret them?
Oh, a little bit always.

But it's sure as hell a story worth remembering.

I take up more colour than I used to,
and these- these are the lines that will never be filled in.

I earned them.

It's everywhere, the tension, the death, it's everywhere.
Can't run from food, no sir.
Anorexia is very fashionable in my city.
Bulimia, sorry to say, is never fashionable.
I shiver, but not as hard as I used to.
I cave in my stomach, but not as far as it used to.
I slowly earn my gravity.
Less dizzy, I never knew how pleasurable down could be.
My mouth has become a sacred place,
Cradling a cornucopia of life,
ten little pounds,
I'm desperate to accept
the way my footsteps sound.

In such despair can be found hope
In lies can be found truth-
But not for those who feed on lies
Let suckle from their youth-
Oh hearts that die and wither slow!
Such hopeless cry shall never know-
Yet- truth with glory reigns beside
For those of whom do seldom lie-
Hearts- slow despair- are slow to die!
And live a joyous life-

When I met ya,
I wasn't ready for ya
I knew it wasn't over when it ended.
Writing poetry
Late into the night
Creeping up in my dreams
I knew it wasn't over when it ended.
Now
(I knew I was right)
I knew it wasn't over when it ended.
It'll be a while;
This I'm sure
But it won't be long (yeah)
You see,
I need to discover me
Before I can re-discover you.