Welcome to the century of diet pills and hospital bills;
Of diet coke and menthol smoke;
Of thigh gaps and what?

Of girls throwing a mask of bones over themselves;
Disguising themselves,
Hiding every inch of skin from prying eyes and lighthearted lies of 'you dont need to lose any weight;
but doesn't your sister look real good staring at her plate,
And your moms diet seems to have gone really good;
Tell me, does she even eat any food?'

So when I started shrinking I didn't know who to blame.
But right now in the body society rejects I can't find an inch of me that is not ashamed .

Of how my ideas of perfection have been poisoned from the minute I was born.

Growing up I've watched my sister evaporate,
Picking up habits at the dinner table
My eyes fixate;
On every mouthful she lets past her hungry lips.
Counting every glass of water, counting every sip.

Tell me why,
Why girls of our generation think worth is calculated in pounds and inches
Or why empty stomachs and shaking palms are somehow congratulated.
Why our collar bones turn into competitions nobody ever wins.

Welcome to the century of starving girls
Of pretty, starving girls.
Of pretty, dying girls.

I feel a sin progress in my stomach.
Normal people call it hunger.
I call it hell.

(e.k.j.)

I was sixteen years old when I effectively vomited for the first time. As my mother’s pasta and the words of a boy I thought loved me flooded my esophagus I grasped the cold sides of the toilet seat with sweaty palms and bitten down fingernails. I looked into the mirror as if my reflection had finally transformed into a wax figure I had been burning at for years and I knew it would never go back to its original form. I’d seen that look before, in girls wiping their lips in high school bathrooms, girls who wore baggy clothes and flinched when boys playfully poked at their stomachs, girls who put rocks in their pockets before being weighed at doctors’ appointments and covered up bruises over fragile bones with whatever makeup they could find in their mother’s drawer. I sit in health class as the teacher speaks of the dangers of eating disorders from a third person point of view and it seems as if the only sound anyone is hearing is the growling coming from my stomach. I stand up from a lunch table in the cafeteria and freeze at the words of a girl telling me I’ve gotten as skinny as my three month prematurely born best friend. I walk through the front door and immediately remove every piece of clothing that might weigh even an ounce and I step onto the scale with hopes of seeing my importance rise as the numbers fall but no one ever told me that I am worth so much more than 96 pounds.

when food stops being delicious
and starts being frightening instead
when dinner with friends suddenly is scarier
than walking alone in the late hours
when the tears start
just by the thought of eating with people
why is there no treatment for this
unnamed eating disorder
is it even an eating disorder?
or am I just being weird

I am like smoke and ashes that disperse and wither away,
slowly disintegrating into non existence,
talk about extinction,
that's whats my body is slowly turning into,
the shape of my internal bones have started protruding to the surface that I'm scared I might eventually turn into a scarecrow.

I actually enjoy starving my body,
talk about being selfish,
the sound of my stomach grumbling has simply become silence to my ears,
not the way it used to irritate me,
begging, begging and begging to be fed.

Afraid to drive north;
Highway leading home.
To my mother's porch,
Food I can't ignore.

This time late last year -
Planning for the flood.
The torrent of tears,
My throat red with blood.

Attempting to hide
My light-headed days.
Mother mortified
Of my dark gray haze.

The carpet soaked through;
Salty tears the cause.
The growth of mildew,
Over my clenched jaws.

Fearful to return
After the downpour.
A second downturn
Leading toward the war.

We fight over strawberry milk
Ripping waxed white paper
And now I’m drowning in that pastel cream
Always drowning
The sickness covering me
Covering everything, sticking to the walls, the floor, the ceiling, my hands
anxiety living in my blood, staining the sink, bathroom tile, caught in the shower drain, hiding in the ditch.  The world is swimming in those ocean eyes, watering because the body knows its demise. The world is drowning in acrid breath
Perfection soaked stomach acid, throw up black paint to match your state of mind.
I thought it was going to be pretty
Like the shade of cherry blossoms
the shade of strawberry milk
Not bright red blood

I look past my reflection in the mirror;
whale-sized thighs, and
arms too big for the oceans
rain pours down like sharp daggers
into my flesh, and I’m tired
teeth hurt, and I’m tired
heart pounding, and I’m tired
my mermaid waves leave my head like
an old porcelain doll, dying
and I’m tired
I teach my body how to stop needing,
in with the calories, and I’m tired
out with the calories, and I’m really tired
silent screams echo at the fake reflection
that stares blindly through the broken
mirrors
**** me up, I’m seeing stars tonight
bones aching, and I’m smiling
bullets to the head, and I’m smiling
painstakingly dancing through the night
till I’m void of nothing,
they say empty is beautiful, and I want
so dearly to feel beautiful
calories scattered on the floor, like the
those scattered thoughts of everything
I used to be
and everything I am now
scatterbrain, tell me how you feel
when your insides are void of
self-love
you eat hatred for breakfast
and spit self-pity into your toilet
tell me again, silly girl,
do you feel beautiful now?

When I was a little girl I loved going to the fair.
seeing the clowns
rides
and carnies.
but my favorite thing to see at the fair is the fun house
Remember those?
Where mirrors flooded the walls bending towards you
distorting the image you saw to one of absurd portions
Nose swelling larger
legs shrinking
hips inflating.
I loved seeing the shapes my body could take.
...I haven't been to a fun house in years.
And even if I went I know the mirrors would look like those that hang in my room.
Body dysmorphia is it's own fun house
one full of insecurities and self-hate.
It makes regular mirrors bend my perception of reality.
Makes my stomach bloat
thighs inflate
cheeks widen
eyes shrink
My mind has turned into a trapeze act
And I don't know if i want it to stop.