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we tint our lips the bleeding red of broken hearts
rouge our cheeks &
scar ourselves with the burnt-black ashes of animal bones
we paint each-others faces with the war-paint of our generation--
adorn our hair with feathers
our hearts with chain metal
and our girlish dreams and expectations with
armor and the arms of one another
because when we wake
the war drums of this night {and our hearts} will be silenced
like the quiet of a strangers house
when the ashes of brilliant fireworks
have settled on tiled roofs
the moans of our prey will be still--
we will wake and creep from their sides
and find each-other  in the sleeping battle field
strewn with our enemies
& walk
hand in hand away from the soulless slumbering masses
your lips drip blood of broken promises from the undeserving, of hearts devoured
and mine are singed and cut from the flames a hundred sips of firewater, heated words shouted and glasses thrown
we will wake and walk away
and be pretty girls in sundresses again
about a "fabulous" fourth of july
eating disorders are so hard to

                  Kick

because your eating disorder becomes your

closest most

                     honest

most

             Vicious

friend.

your eating disorder will never abandon you.

it will never ignore you it will never

leave

        you

                                      ­    ALONE

at the End of the day, it’s just you and her.

and I say {HER} because mine is a real *****.

your eating disorder is always there to

                     whisper-scream

in your

         ear.

always

there to swim in your aching(empty)(toofull)

                    stomach

to claw at your skull to

break your heart.

she, my vicious friend, comforts me.

because even though I’m being

               destroyed

               ripped apart

at least I’m not alone.

hell, she even gives me an excuse as to WHY

I am

                         alone

itsnotmeitsmyweightnoonecouldeverwantafatgirl

itsnotmeits­myweightthatkeepspeoplefromgettingclosefromLOVINGme

She knows me better than anyone— knows how b

                                                              ­  r

                                                            ­       o

                                                              ­ k

                                                              ­        e

                                                      ­            n

i am.

as much as I ‘recover’

she is there— curled under my brain matter

like a troll in a fairy tale.

she is there

waiting

watching

counting

smiling

because i always come

back.
Written pre-recovery
Poems
are to be quietly
silently whispered
over fires made
out in the chilly cold

Shared, with shifty eyes,
trembling fingers,
trembling voice,
trembling lips,
shaking hands

Reverently whispered
so that the wind
catches the words,
tosses them away
so no one may ever
misuse them again

Poems are to be shared
hiding away
from the world
 Nov 2012 Katrine Lif
Lissa Heli
Show me all the scars you have,
and the stories behind them

I want to see the scars on your fingers.
And hear about all the demons you had to fight off with your bare hands.
did you win?

I want to see the scars on your back.
From all the people who have ever hurt you.
And how I vow to not add to that collecetion.

I want to see the scars on your heart.
well i can't see them, but i can assure you i feel them.
those are the scars that hurt the most and im  sure some of those wounds are still open.

And i want to see the scars on your face.
those distinct markings that give you your features.
those marking that say you were not afraid to get up close and get hurt
for a reason you saw fit.

Will you show me all your scars?
I wont try to fix them, i promise.
because i know some of them you hold dear.
you can give me any scar you want though. i want a reminder of you.
i wont flinch, it won't even hurt.
Im used to it, so cut as deep as you want.

Darling, show me all your scars.
If I wrote in rhyme,
with satisfying time,
would you like it?

Does it comfort you
seeing stanzas of two,

And is it pleasing
without any meaning?

Do you mind it?

And if I were to stumble
on my own words and
my thoughts crumble
beneath the structure

of beautiful nothingness
and regress

to complexity that resembles more
the disjointed thoughts of our souls
the pain and ugly in our hearts
the way we might actually speak (gasp!)
and think
and hope
and hurt
--is that not beautiful enough
for your poetic sensibilities?

If not, I understand
and will no longer clash
my words like waves that crash
on the unforgiving sand.

You may find much to see,
but this poem means nothing to me.
I sit down
Write my heart
My ******* heart
Down
The stupid thing
Refuses to be published
The content?
Lost, lost, lost
Something in my heart
HURTS, hurts
So so bad
I want to chuck
My laptop at the walls
Smash its face in
Because I know
That I will
Never ever
Be able to say
These things
Face to face
I know that
I will
Never ever
Be able to
Write like
that Ever again
The uniformity startles me
I walk in and out of my head
As I hear you talking,
Saying these terrible things
I could almost believe
That I was in a nightmare
As I ran, I realised it wasn't
The memories of the past few moments
Ran ahead of me, comprehension
Not dawning, until someone
Caught me, made me sit,
Made me revisit my reasons
For running like a mad woman
With that look in my eye
Running tears down my cheeks
Didn't wake me up
I gasped, short of breath
The realisation slapping me
Across the face
It's the monster in your heart
The one that never gives in easy
It will follow you around till you finally
acknowledge it
It will haunt you, in your dreams and
your reality.
It'll make you draw back, intimidated and
terrified.

If you never look it in the face,
you'll never see what it means to fear
You might draw back-
one step, two steps, three
for you're terrified.
He's standing right in front of you,
his wild smile just for you,
the physical personification of your fear
And then you lean in, closer to his face,
growl at him to stay away.
Now it's his turn to draw back
As he throws his head back and laughs
in wild amusement and the same pride,
parents feel at the accomplishments of
their darling child.
He leaves you that day with a whispery
kiss on your forehead
but he's back the next to make you even
more scared.

One day, when you don't fight back
he will look into your eyes and see your fear
and will frown at the defeat in your eyes
He'll use the dirtiest of tricks to make you fight
He'd do anything to make you fight back
So if you crumple to the ground in defeat,
he'll make sure you watch as your worst enemy
receives all that you had been fighting for
right in-front of your very eyes.

His sense of humour is critical
State of mind, questionable
Love for you? Unforgettable
Part of the same series that Death Is A Friend is part of.
Death Is A Friend - http://hellopoetry.com/poem/death-is-a-friend/
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