She pines for me to come back to her.
Her broad shoulders, loose lips that really do sink my ship every time she speaks
She makes me feel like a Barbie doll on acid
As she critiques every element of my appearance.
My eyes are too wide and inquisitive
My hair isn't quite straight
And my weight?
Forget about it.

Yes, Bulimia has a funny way
Of making me feel like a failure
And yet I still hear her invigorating voice
Every waking moment I live.
It makes my skin come alive
My body jolt
My mind rise and fall
Still dizzy from the high she gives me.

People think
Going to a nutritionist will take care of her
Going on a diet will absolve her presence
Sure, she gets jealous
But that just causes her to inflict more pain upon me.

We have been fighting recently
And I threaten to take care of it for good
By taking a handful of whatever pills I can find to shut her mouth
She dares me, defiantly
"Do it."
One time, I almost did too.
Toxic relationships seem to be the most prominent kind I have

My therapist says she's only around because my ex reinforced every idea she put into my head
And my father did as well.
But frankly, I think she was there long before
Anyone ever encouraged me to skip a meal
Before anyone ever told me that my stomach has too much soft earth within it
To make me lovable
Before anyone made me feel like I wasn't enough.

She has all the influence in my *** life
And kind of reminds me of a jealous ****
For she encourages me to be promiscuous
But then her beady eyes give way
Scrutinizing every inch of my thick body
She whispers the number on the scale in my ear
And so I tell him to turn off the lights
So he won't have to look at the abomination
That stares back at me every day.

As his hands glide over my back
His fingers slide into the grooves between each individual rib
I **** uncomfortably and awkwardly
Because the fear that he is looking at the person I see
Could not scare me more.
She tells me that this fear is rational.

She is the third lover you did not invite into your bed space
But to call her Mia
To grant her personhood seems wrong
It seems sick.

She has a personality of her own
That's for sure
And none of my friends like her.
When she hurts me, I make excuses
"I've got it under control"
I say
"I can fix her."
Sure it's a lie
But I've made a career of lying to myself.

She is not a person
She is a wicked spirit
With a black curtain over any trace of a heart that was once there.
She tries to control me
She tries to become me.

And so,
Over the past month I've gained a few pounds
And while it makes my vice
Bulimia
Angrier than could be
She likes me skinny, she really does.
All that weight
That soft earth previously mentioned
The vessel I carry in my belly
It's all me.
It's all me
And none of her deceit has permeated it's entirety
So it remains
Purely me.