TW: mention of bulimia
I’ve spent so many hours, days
hunched over a toilet, kneeling on bruised knees,
a top cold bathroom tile.
Bile reminiscing in my mouth,
uncontrollable,
leaking at the seams,
Slobber strings tie me to the bowl, eyelids refusing to open fully.
Melodic gagging punctuated with the splash of water.
Dry heaving feels like drowning after a while.
It used to be on purpose, my middle fingers dancing their way to the back of my throat.
But I knew it was only a matter of time before my body sought
divine retribution.
My stomach couldn't not
purge my insides
Nonconsensual acid,
curl taking over my tongue.
Nothing feels as disgusting as
this does.
I don’t want it anymore,
I’m better now.
I don't want it anymore.
I don't want it anymore.
I remember vomiting blood
It was the first time I really felt
scared about what I had done to my body.
It was a 5-day episode. 120 hours.
My body pushing up anything I tried to swallow.
Salivated chunks and partially digested retch mixing with red tinted toilet water.
I walked into that doctor's office,
Holding a bucket,
a visual reminder,
of what I had done to myself.
The nurse congratulates me
on my new weight, he says to keep up
The
Good
Work.
The weight I was when my teeth started to rot.
The weight I was when I only ate what didn’t hurt coming back up.
The weight I was when I felt weak and cold all the time.
The weight I was when I didn’t know if I’d get better.
I didn’t know how to tell him I was decaying on the inside,
didn't know how he couldn't smell it on my breath.
Didn’t know how to say
I'm smaller because I’m fading
Smaller because you can't fix me,
smaller
smaller
smaller
smaller
Smaller in the name of thinness.
But was it ever worth it?