To the body that houses my soul, mind, and matter:
I am sorry that I have never considered you enough.
You have always been:
Too much of this, too little of that.
As many times as I detest this disease
I think I secretly love its company.
Throat burned from the nothingness left inside of me,
Lightheadedness makes me loveable.
The only way I am digestible is when I have nothing left to digest.
My thoughts flow just like this poem
Self-loving to self-loathing in the span of seconds.
I'll start again tomorrow.