1.  There is nothing romantic about the way our hair falls out or the way we hover over the open toilet like there's no other empty space in the house.
2. Do not think that it will be easier to love us because the love we aren’t giving ourselves will go to you.
3. You can trail your fingers along my rib cage, count every vertebrae in my back like marbles stacked high on top of each other. This is not beautiful, this is what dying looks like.
4. I’m sorry for the smell of my breath, but there’s no amount of toothpaste that could cover up the smell of myself rotting from the inside out.
5. “I thought you had to be skinny to have an eating disorder.”
5.   “You don’t look like you starve yourself.”
5.   I know that you wish you could hold me without worrying i’ll turn to dust if you squeeze too hard.
6.   I grew up being told that my body is a temple and I should treat it as such, but I don’t think this is right, see; temples can be destroyed but it always takes another person. I am doing this to myself.
7.   I can’t remember the last time I ate without feeling guilty.
7.   I can’t remember the last time I ate.
8.   One day, I will be nothing and you will be nothing, and i’m sorry that i’m already so close to being gone.
9.   I want to get better. I am trying to get better.
10. Do not think that loving us will be easier, because the love we do not give ourselves is gone, and we cannot love you more than we don’t love ourselves.

Outward beauty:
A passing breeze--
Stirs the drapes
And its gone.

Inner beauty:
That shines through
Whatever you have on.

I see their tanned and weathered skin
And wonder where your hands have been.

I see the gray streak in your hair
And know it wasn't always there.

My heart before I met you
Was desolate and cold,
With gusts of howling wind
And shifting drifts of snow.

Now, the wind lives in your hair,
And your eyes my shelter are.

I’ve written now a thousand Poems,
  in search of just that one

Each word to slay the demon time,
  each phrase my soul undone

I’ve come so close a hundred nights,
   to see but not to touch

Then left to limp between the lines,
 —their failure now my crutch

(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2017)