The body
I want
exists
through the veil of blood that spiderwebs above my eyelids.

The soul
I so desire
screams out like nails on a chalkboard, across my vanes-
and alone, underneath the cupboard drawer.

The human
I loved
hides underneath my larynx
and rests so heavily upon my soul.

It is the monster under my bed
but, I am no longer five so-
I assume night lights are out of the question.

She is beautiful.
Lives in the eye of the beholder.
She is stunning.
Shunned by society.
Her skin is thickened.
It has to be.
Face to face daily with adversity.
She is a motherless child.
Grown up now.
Mother's still there.
A childless mother.
She is a lady unlike any other.
As such she will thrive.
She's staying alive.
Living and breathing.
Taking five.
Gasping and striving.
Making a living.
The power of the voice.
A choice.
Only she can make.
(C) LIVVI MMXV

I have lung made of paper bags
                                                            ­                      and a spine made of glass.
I spend my life walking on thin ice,
                                                            ­                 knowing that if I slip I will break.
I can't walk with great posture,
                                                        ­                because the weight on my shoulders.
My mind is full of cliche metaphors
                                                       ­                 and clouded with the stress of living.
The more I panic and my breathing increases,
                                                   the­ more my paper bags start to strain and crinkle.
The more I walk around with the weight I try to carry,
                                                          ­       the risk of shattering my glass spine rises.
My eyes are closed,
                                                 and my hands are ***** from trying to dig myself up.
To stop my lungs from straining,
                                                                    I stop myself from breathing.
To lessen the risk of my spine breaking,
                                                               I lay in bed and never move around.

As you cried on my shoulder,
it watered the flowers that you planted in my chest.

I wanted long , thin legs
A skinny waist
And collar bones that stick out.
I wanted to be pretty.

But what I didn't want
Was the price.
Skippy meals,
Using constant excuses.

I wanted to be perfect
But instead,
I was lifeless
and years later I still pay.

I soon reached my goal,
But was the price I paid worth it?

Yesterday morning I remembered the comfort of hunger pains.
I ate as little as possible at lunch,
and didn't eat when I got home.

For the first time in almost a year,
I skipped dinner
and looked at photos of bodies I wanted to have.

For so long I was able to eat without worry,
and I never thought about skipping meals,
I was able to change the idea of a "weight goal"
To simply having a goal to be happy.

What is happening to me?

They kiss your arms and say you are beautiful. They trace old scars and say you are beautiful. They rub the cuts and say you are beautiful.

But I am not beautiful. This is not beautiful. This is a disaster, a walking wreck. While you all sleep sound at night we stay up, our fingers walking over our old friends and breaking skin with razor blades, unleashing memories. We are hitting our thighs with fists fueled with the words like "you woukd be prettier if..",  reverberating through our skulls. We are chugging water and not eating in the hopes of obtaining a beauty that no one can or should obtain. We are purging the nourishment while you lay full, bellies satisfied.
While you had dreamless nights, we never left our night mares. The monsters from our dreams followed us into reality, but no one looks hard enough to see them but, only the already broken witness the events.

They say you are beautiful, but do they even know what they mean? What they are doing? Because this is anything but beautiful. This is a broken house of fire.

Our love all at sea
where the waves come crashing.
We're not in the same boat
we're two ships passing.