It's just a bite, what harm could it do?
It triggers a domino effect, because one bite invariably turns into two, and three, and four and all of a sudden you're eating.
But you can't do that, because being skinny will make everything better.
You look in the mirror, hoping to see ribs and spine and hip-bones. You stretch your skin farther over your bones, and watch the fat melt away. You are skinny, and you are indestructible.
Nothing fits.
You shop for new clothes
but they sag in all the wrong places.
Nothing pulls over your chest the way it used to, instead it hangs there limply.
There are inches of extra fabric behind your thighs.
Your hips used to be graceful and womanly, but now you look like a pre-pubescent child.
Being skinny just isn't fun anymore.
But you can't go back, because you remember times when you'd stand in front of dressing room mirrors and clothes would s t r e t c h over your stomach and hips and thighs and *******. Everything would be too tight in all the wrong places.
It is either skinny or fat, never an in-between. You can never be "healthy" because that's fat too.
And the food is still on your plate while all of this runs through your mind and it almost kills you, because it's JUST A BITE.
but it isn't 'just' anything. it's a big deal.
So you leave the bite behind and your stomach begs you for something, anything. And then you see the candy.
The chips.
The diet sodas.
The protein bars.
The brownies.
The ice cream.
The milkshakes.
And suddenly you are out of control, eating it all at once and you can't stop. It goes in but it HAS TO COME OUT.
So you lock yourself in the stall.
You tickle the back of your throat with your pointer finger and it comes back.
Purple,
Orange,
Blue.
Unnatural colors that come from processed foods.
Red,
yellow,
green.
And you are empty again,
crying on the bathroom floor
with no one to save you.

I mean, honestly.
He says fucknuggets around me.
Who says fucknuggets around a girl
if she isn't just one of the guys?
and shitfudge.
That's a new one.
I don't think he even knows
how I feel about him
and he couldn't.
I can't find the courage to tell him
but I'm such a hypocrite.
I once told him
"feelings are like puke, better out than in"
but just this once,
I think I'll hold back.

Her voice echoes through the empty hallways. She is loud but alone. The tears that you see are only a fraction of all the tears she actually cries. Her hair is long and blonde, but she despises it. She wants to shave it all off, to tattoo her skull to show that caring is superficial and WRONG. She lines her blue eyes with a liner called "denim". She throws on jeans that hug her body and a t-shirt stained with hot chocolate. She covers the brown stain with a scarf. She puts on chapstick because who knows? Maybe someone will think she's important enough to kiss her. Her brand-new bangs cover her forehead and eyes. They cover the hoop earrings that feel too girly, too pretty. Everything about her today just feels WRONG. The boy she likes is just one table over, and he doesn't glance at her once the entire hour. She hurries out of the room , not looking back. She bursts into spanish class, out of breath and ready for the boredom that will be the next hour. And then it is back to study hall. It is all too repetitive for her. It is her first day back and already she looks out the door, ready to go home. It isn't like she's got any friends there either, she's an only child and her dad works overseas. The rest of the day is a blur. It passes and she doesn't notice or care. And that boy still hasn't noticed her. No one has. She is but an empty shadow of a heart in a hollow shell of a body that wants to be warmed by another.
But it isn't meant to be...

Most people have scars that run in
perfectly
              straight
                           lines
                     but
             mine
        are
hopelessly crooked
because
I hated myself too much
to be that careful

I hacked at the paper-white skin
that was my wrist
and drew
               thin
                      red
                           lines
that didn't seem to know
where they were going
or even where they wanted to go

Today
when I touch them
the pain is still
                        so
                            raw
­                        so
                  real
I can almost feel the tears
rushing down my face
and onto my arms,
mixing with the blood
trying in vain to heal me

When my arms were open
I didn't see blood
I saw
         hurt
                hopelessness
                               ­      fear
                                           insecurity
                               despair
                      doubt
              pain
       hate
anger
The pain is hidden
underneath the layers of skin
that rushed to cover the ones
that I had pierced through
but sometimes
I think
           it
              might
                         still
                                be
                        ­              there

The pancake sizzles
on the extremely hot pan
sticky sweet syrup