And I hate you.

every time I draw in a ***** hot breath

when I hate myself

for everyday that the word

           FAT

crosses my mind

everyday that a smaller pants size is a bigger victory than

published poems

for ever calorie

counted— because numbers are so much more than digits; they’re definitions of who you are. they’re nights of smiles and laughter, or they are nights on the floor of my bathroom, leaning over a porcelain bowl.  
1234567891011121314151617181920(we’re okay…)304050(getting into dangerous territory)60708090100(going to far, stop now. this is enough for the day)200300400500(stop.)6007008009001000(I can burn this off. I wont eat tomorrow..)1100120013001500(you’re disgusting)

for every list of food I’ve made

for every time i can look at a plate of food and accurately assign each food a number

for every day you’ve made having an eating disorder okay

{buti’mnotthinenoughforaneatingdisorder, right?}

I hate you—

almost as much as I hate myself.