She talks like ‘finally got up to 103’ and
I’m like, c’mon, girl, keep eating, you aren’t as healthy as you should be, and
He talks like ‘back 60
pounds ago’ and
I’m like, dude, rad, just keep eating healthy.
But like,
There’s this sick sort of jealousy.
I mean, she’s guilty when she’s too small for her jeans while
I’m guilty when I wish it was me
See, sometimes I try starving,
Just to see…

I don’t have an eating disorder:
Ask my mother,
I just have a small appetite.
And I don’t need therapy,
Because it’s scratches not scars that cover me.
I’m not a cutter but pass me a lighter—
I don’t like razors but I do play with fire,
And I’d like to burn these thoughts and watch the smoke drift
Higher
Higher
Higher,
Until the sky opens up and swallows me,
Like I swallow more pills than necessary.
The painkillers keep my nerves numb and dead,
But do nothing for the bundles of nerves in my head.
I want to be empty.
I want to be emptier physically
Than the emptiness of my mentality.
I’m starving
In my head,
Because physically I’m doing just fine.
I’m walking the line
Between average
And a little less
And a little less
And a little less.
I’m misery at its best because
Its best is nothing, and I
Am nothing.
(Or at least,
I wish to be.)