My parents ask me                                               whenever I am in my room
                                                                   For several hours at a time
"What do you do all day?"
I sit in my room writing poems
                                   for boys who will never write back
Writing letters                                           to people who have abused me
Writing letters                                     to my eating disorder
"Hi, how are you?"
                                                                 "Haven't seen you in a while."
((And I'm ever so ******* thankful for that))
However, this time she responded
                                                  "It's almost Thanksgiving,"
"We should talk"
It's like she's carving her name into my bones                      one more time
It's like she finds purpose in ******* the life from my heart            with a straw
She is a cut that just won't heal
A stalker you can't get rid of
And yet,                                                                           you continue to want her
She is a paradox
Because you feed her           open mouth with the         grapes fit for                  a      queen
But she is the evil                                               witch.
She reminds me that               I need her
Traveling through the canals in my                             bones
Shooting up my                                         spine
Making my                                                             blood flow in waves
I           cannot            control             her
She tells me again,                        as if I hadn't                           considered it
That these holidays are going to be                           hard
They are going to try to                rip the skin            off of me
Pluck each individual                                                                   eyelash from me
Seeing how much I can take                                                                                                                      
before I lose it.
After all, my      grandfather          is              gone
And the last time he saw me
She was still                              my partner
Attached               at the hip
Last Thanksgiving, she not only              sat        with      me at the table
But held      my        hair         back                  as I vomited my dinner into the toilet
It's so            sad          and               sick that sometimes                I miss her
Like an old friend,                                              an old pair of shoes
So worn and broken
But still somehow             a part of me.
Still, I                            refuse to                                          sink
I am a ball of fire                                ready to explode
But I will contain
the                                                     urge
                                     to
               relapse
Until my
                         very
last
                  breath.
She will not be the thing     that                          kills me
I will                            die                                                               fighting her off
Escaping her talons
Recognizing she plants                                                                 bombs in me
Not roses.
So, when                       my parents ask me                                           what I do all                                            day now
I can                say
                                                      "Live."