I had bulimia for breakfast.
It tasted like
hunger
and something I'd had before.

It tasted like
the broken mirrors in my room,
and something I'd had before
the hate made me like this

The broken mirrors in my room
tell me lies that take
the hate, make me like this.
These reflections make me

tell myself lies that take
the hurt, that make me whole.
This reflection makes me
an explosion, pushing all the bad, all the good,
                         all the all out of my body.

An explosion, pushing all the bad, all the good,
                          all the all out of my body.
I had bulimia for breakfast.
Hunger:
The hurt that makes me a hole.