eating disorders are a simile for a coffin.
it hurts to breathe, with 6 feet of dirt pressed on your chest,
6 days of emptiness pressed on your chest.
your mother buried you the day you stopped eating,
your eyes are still open but she does not see past your pale skin,
frail bones,
hollow stomach.
this door does not open from the inside out,
you missed a chance to grab the hand that tried to help you.
if you had known the late nights she spent sobbing over losing you,
before you were even gone,
would you still have chased this emptiness?
the day you lusted for hollowness rather than wholeness,
you squeezed your mothers hand,
and told her to save her love for the living.

“when i close my eyes i see constellations.

you promised

you would still be here 
in the morning,

but my fingers close
around 
cold sheets,

and i realize answers
do not lie

in the stars,

they lay in the empty side

of my bed.”

it is safe to assume that my poetry will not make you love me back.
you can wash your hands of me,
but once i have tasted you my lips will spill sonnets about loosing myself in your voice until my throat is dry.
i will uncurl metaphors for your smile and the sun and
how they both pour golden light through the cracks in my ribs and into my heart,
until im empty enough to make room for you to fill me.
do not fall in love with a poet.
better, do not let a poet fall in love with you.
we make nasty habits of bleeding ourselves dry to make enough ink out of our blood to fill the page.
do not let a poet fall in love with you,
unless you crave an immortal soul,
because we will write about you on the walls on the inside of our coffins.

this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that your ancestors rattled the cages so hard they broke
and learned to tame the lioness that stepped out from the aftermath.
you can find your linage in the dirt beneath your grandmothers fingernails,
here is the fight that they poured into your soul,
the mountains that they climbed,
the battles that they conquered.
your mothers grandmother laughs like wicken,
carries something valuable in the deep creases of her skin,
tells you not to waste your time with love and lust,
but to chase the wind while your feet are strong enough to carry you.
this is what your mother does not want you to see,
that you come from a long line of women nothing close to tame.
that you carry the blood of those who molded the world,
instead of letting it mold them.

time is not your friend.
you figured this end of recovery would taste less like blood,
feel less like the wrong side of the bed.
bitter sweet doesnt even begin to describe your love language,
your bite is as sweet as your kiss.
youve become so fed up with waking up in the morning, you forget that was once what you prayed for.
who is your God?
is it the one you hand the butchers knife,
and lie your head so sweetly on the chopping block for?
or is it the one you turn from and flee,
when love becomes too familiar.

there are days when i feel myself craving to be a mother.
i let myself flirt with the fantasy of a daughter playing in a field of daisies,
golden curls bouncing like her laughter off of my heart.
the world does not let me forget its presence long.
how daisy are weeds that fool you with their prettiness,
how the universe will fool you into thinking that it is soft.
i tell myself that she will not be like me,
she will not carve out her bones to make room for men who will feast on her soul,
she will not chop off her curls when boys tug on them on the playground.
i imagine any daughter of mine would grow to be a warrior,
tongue sharper than a sword,
soul more powerful than a tsunami wave.
but i will remember this world is not always worthy of the life we bring into it.
that hardening comes from pain,
and that fact will always outweigh fantasy.

eating disorders are a simile for a coffin.
it hurts to breathe, with 6 feet of dirt pressed on your chest,
6 days of emptiness pressed on your chest.
your mother buried you the day you stopped eating,
your eyes are still open but she does not see past your pale skin,
frail bones,
hollow stomach.
this door does not open from the inside out,
you missed a chance to grab the hand that tried to help you.
if you had known the late nights she spent sobbing over losing you,
before you were even gone,
would you still have chased this emptiness?
the day you lusted for hollowness rather than wholeness,
you squeezed your mothers hand,
and told her to save her love for the living.