The demons are on replay today

Circling through my mind.

I’m trying to tell them they’re not telling the truth

Yet somehow, it’s hard to find

The words to say back to them

As they batter me inside

One glimpse at a mirror is all they need

To crush my soul and pride.

You’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re worthless

As though my appearance is the epitome

Of my future destiny

As though it matters how I look.

I try to be strong, to fight their throng,

of never ending bashes,

yet sometimes I am prone to crashes,

where tears fall from my lashes

and I feel as though I’ve been reduced to ashes.

But I must fight, I must continue on.

For an ending isn’t the solution.

No matter how much I want to curl up in a ball

And hide from all

I can’t be small, I must stand tall.

You’re not a burden, you’re a human,

With so much more to you than looks and appearance.

So fight the urge to restrict
This is the real Laura’s edict.

Illness

May begin with the letter I,

Yet many illnesses

Are unseen to the attentive eye

If you look closely

You will see

The cracks and fault lines

That comprise me

From the outside, to the unattuned eye

I look like a normal vase,

For the glue is now dry.

Truth be told

I was smashed

Obliterated

Pieces essential to my core

Strewn haphazardly across the floor.

But thanks to those that saw me,

And a little internal conviction.

My pieces have been collected

My old form resurrected.

Thanks to a little glue

I appear to be almost brand new.

But don't be deceived

For what you perceive

Should not be completely believed.

For the vase is very fragile,

Not to be toyed with.

Not a player's game.

Please don't mishandle me,

And resurface days of misery.

Today I was told.

I don't know who I am.

An absurd remark?

Perhaps.

Or a sad realization.

A slave to the grades.

"Do that for your resumé!"

Try harder, you must be the best.

Perfect, perfect.

From school to work to food consumption,

the slave driver in my head allows no interruption.

And what has this created?  What is this Frankenstein?

A girl involved in so much, yet without her own mind.

What are her passions?  What gives her real joy?

What's hidden behind that achievement ploy?

For now, there's no answer.

She's perfectionism's fine dancer.

Yet with some searching and fun,

The puppet show may finally be done.

These hands tell a story
A story of the unknown
Of a girl who tried to **** herself
Bury herself under a stone.

On the outside they appear thin,
Veiny and scarred.
A relic of the old days.
When times were very hard.

When restriction was the answer.
Ruled her thoughts and mind.
Shriveling away was the solution.
A disappearance of a kind.

Others just see thin hands
But for her memories burn from the past
The view of these emaciated hands
Remind her of how she almost couldn't last

Recovery on her fingertips
A war fought in her mind.
These hands are a painful reminder
Of the past she's trying to leave behind

Imagine a voice.

The voice of negativity.

Sitting prettily in the back of your head.

Judging your every move.

Your every inclination.

You got one wrong on a test?
You ******* up.
How could you be so dumb?
Try harder next time.

You had a treat?
Who says you deserve that?
Certainly not I.
You lazy, fat, sloth.

Is that your reflection in the mirror?
Now isn't that terrifying?
That acne, that hair.
Yikes.

I run amok in your mind.

I control your every last move.

Just try to escape my wrath.

You blubbering, bumbling fool.

She presses her bony back up against the wall and crouches into a ball.

The pain she feels inside is too horrible to hide.

Everyone can see it, she’s ashamed of how she looks.

But the illness wails on.

It tells her she’s not smart enough.

Not good enough to be loved.

You? You’re a sick freak, how could anyone like you?

You made a mistake? Now wallow in regret as it gnaws at your very core.

A year ago there certainly is nothing you wanted more.

Than to be a bit lighter, like those other girls.

Like the athletic girl you used to be.

No more sweets, no more food luxuries.

Perpetual restriction is the key.

At first, others commented on the body she attained.

Until she continued on and on, until barely anything remained.

Desperate for some help, she held on for dear life.

As her parents endlessly convinced her, in the future there’d be less strife.

She lived as a zombie for months and months on end.

Restriction, self hatred, and hopelessness, filled the thoughts in her head.

You ate a bit of dessert?  You broke your cardinal rule.

All you wanted is to lose some weight, but look at you, you fool.

Now she lives with the constant reminders, of the horror that occurred.

Her hair, thin and brittle, dry as straw.

Her skin, yellowed and bruised, scarred from the pain within.

Her all too thin appearance, makes her not want to be touched.

She fears intimacy, and letting others feel her cold hands.

Yet when she goes to eat, that demon is stuck on replay.

Remember how you hated yourself?  Don’t ***** up your intake.

A loss of control is a loss of self worth.  Which you barely have anyways.

Perfect your food intake and you can escape that dreadful regret.

You’re broken, so broken.

Yet out of the sobs and trembling, the girl utters a phrase

“My strength emanates from my cracks, which will cover them

and cure my haze”