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Riley Whelan Aug 2014
I saw a man on the
subway today
eating a cup of
vanilla ice cream
but it was no mundane sighting
this man looked worn
like he'd seen some ****
and been through it as well

this man
sitting across from me on the subway
was eating this cup of
vanilla ice cream
in such a way
that it made me think quite a bit
about life

this man
eating a cup of
vanilla ice cream
was eating it as though
it was the first thing he'd ever tasted;
he was eating it as though
it was the best ice cream he's ever had;
he was eating it as though
it was the last meal he'd ever eat;
all at once

this man
was eating this cup of
vanilla ice cream
in such a captivating way
I couldn't take my eyes off of him
he was careful about it
eating slow and steady
with each bite
he would close his eyes
and it almost looked like he smiled
as he tasted it
each and every time

a man
sitting across from me on the subway
eating a cup of
vanilla ice cream
when i get to his age I want to look
that peaceful
and that content
despite whatever **** I'll know

this man
eating a cup of
vanilla ice cream
made me think about life
and i believe it's so beautiful
Simon Oct 2019
Nothingness is without claim to a product. That product, being a flesh-eating desire of nothingness. How does that truly define what nothingness with a claim is about? Simple. It eats the nothingness from right out of your very claims. Tempting you to feel the flesh-eating desire of nothingness claims take variety in its own product. Giving you the desire to take effect against the primate that localizes themselves against the nothingness with a claim. A product to fashion itself full of thirsty varieties. A deep contemplating resolution to how one gently caresses there very essence into the nothingness. Claiming there very rights to its own product. How does two rights to a claim, maximize a product? The flesh-eating product of nothingness becomes dreadfully thirsty for those varieties belonging to the primate stepping into unknown territory. The flesh-eating nothingness begins to dissolve the essence of that primate altogether. Going easy as not to strain its own consumption. Or is it just desiring the inevitability of a never-ending claim to thirsty varieties? The primate’s essence filled to the brim with its product, is equalizing the claim of itself into the nothingness’s claim of flesh-eating symptoms. What happens when it’s had its fill? It’s a flesh-eating nothingness, right? What do you think it’s going to do…? Paint pictures of wanting to do something, even thou it could very well strain its own focus in the moment of doubt. No! It’s far older than some primate losing itself one consumable bite at any given time. Losing yourself one focal point at a time. Never knowing what the claim of nothingness could really amount to! Or what the product of flesh-eating gives when consuming you whole!
A flesh-eating nothingness isn't proud of it's claims, until it's invoked by a newly developed primed example. Logic in the essence of its victims will surely tempt its desire even more. Or even longer then it ever suspected before.
Theia Gwen  May 2015
"Recovery"
Theia Gwen May 2015
People always tell you that it can get better
What they neglect to tell you is how much worse it gets
Before the better part comes
In every eating disorder novel,
You can always perfectly pinpoint the moment
The protagonists steps over the line of unwell
Into well
This whole 'recovery' deal sounded good enough at first
I get to eat Luna Bars,
I have positive quotes all over the place,
I meditate and do yoga all day,
I somehow reach the a level of Enlightenment
Usually reserved for Buddhist monks
And I don't have to live with a ******* eating disorder anymore
I bought a recovery journal
To talk back to my mental illness
But so far my depression has taken control of the pen
I bought a adult coloring book
To help me de-stress
But I still only want to color a river on my wrists a crimson color

I keep thinking there's a way to be a functional bulimic
Or even better, a functional anorectic
A way that I can be recovered and enlightened and normal
And still dissect each and every meal
As if I was dealing with something ***** and impure
Is it still recovery if I can't fight the voices in my head?
Is if still recovery if I don't even try?
Is it still recovery if I still can't look in the mirror,
want the outside to mirror the chaos inside,
crave sunken cheeks and fallen out hair
That I want to preform a vanishing act right before your eyes
See my skin cave in, bones protruding
I used to think that eating disorders were about beauty
But now I realize they're about pain
And perfection and punishment
And I had to live through it to see that

I seem to never be able to do anything right
And my eating disorder was supposed to remedy that
I was good at self destruction
I was good at sitting at dinner, sipping diet coke
Feeling oh, so superior and smiling brightly
As I said that I'd already eaten
And begged my stomach pains not to betray me then
But now I've failed at having an eating disorder
And at not having an eating disorder
And I can't live anymore in this shade of gray
Coloring everything and ruling my thoughts
I don't want to be in "recovery"
I want to be recovered
Because no one tells you
How you'll cry through every single meal
How you'll see yourself grow in the mirror and not know
What's real and what's not
No one tells you
That an eating disorder never goes away
That you'll never diet again
That trying to lose weight in recovery isn't a good idea

The worst thing about an eating disorder
Is that there is no such thing as abstinence
Recovery is not one decision
It is a decision you will have to make
Every time you find yourself looking down at a plate
And at first, you'll have to pray to the gods
For indulging in the sins of being a human
But someday, maybe someday
Those prayers will go somewhere else
I have no idea what this is. I just needed to ramble.
Brie Pizzi Dec 2016
Dear Ignorance,

You're everywhere; suffocating the minds of people I see and encounter every day.

Especially today in my calculus class. But this kind of ignorance hit me ******* a more personal level.

Three girls talking before class. The normal, boring stuff. I wasn't particularly listening but the next thing they said I wish never came out of their mouths.

"I could never be anorexic, I just love food too much."

Her friends giggle and agree quietly but they don't know how hard those words hit me. I know they didn't mean it to be insulting but that's exactly how I took it and for the next 60 minutes of class I replayed that sentence in my head about 100 times.

To think that people could be that ignorant about eating disorders. As if it is the people who hate food that decide it is a good idea to starve themselves.

I decided to write this letter because I want to change the way people view eating disorders. Because, if I could go back and talk to those girls I would. Not to yell at them but to educate them. To have them understand why saying something that ignorant can be hurtful to the people around them. But, I can't go back and that's why I am writing to you, whoever you may be. I don't know you or your view on eating disorders but I'd like to educate you a little from my personal experience.

I love food. I always have. Growing up I never had to worry about my weight because I had sports. But, as sports began to slowly stop as I grew up, so did the food I ate.

Now I could blame it on society's view on what beautiful is or the death of someone close in my family or even the boy who broke my heart in high school that made me decide to stop eating. Of course those were factors in my eating disorder but in reality it was my own decision. I started to gain weight fast and with that, my self confidence lowered. And as my self confidence lowered, well, so did my calorie intake.

When someone is dealing with an eating disorder that person is having DAILY arguments with their mind because they LOVE food. They WANT food. They CRAVE it.

So what stops them?

Their mind

You: "One more granola bar won't make me too fat right?"
Mind: "Are you kidding? One more granola bar and you'll pop out of your size two jeans. You don't want to go up ANOTHER size, do you?

Little does the mind know your body only consumed about 80 calories that day to begin with and you're lightheaded; so lightheaded you're afraid you'll pass out.


It was a long struggle but now, five years later, I can honestly say that I am beautiful. I can say that food does not define me. My weight does not define my beauty. I can love food and still be healthy. I can love food and still love my body. I'll admit it's hard at some points. Sometimes I feel weak. Sometimes I look in the mirror and am not entirely happy with what I see but I have friends and family who love me and remind me daily how strong I am and how loved I am.

So, to the three girls in my calc class. Don't think that being anorexic is simply "not enjoying food." It's much more than that; much different than that; much more complicated than that. Everyone experiences eating disorders differently. So next time before assuming things about topics you don't know a single thing about, stay quiet and educate yourselves.

Sincerely,
A girl who loves food more than anything.
fROM THE dESK OF THE pOET**

I'm embarrassed to admit this. The night before last I ate an excessive amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts. If you've ever had them you know that just one or two have enough toxic chemical dust sprinkled on them to make your mouth numb for several minutes. Well I got into a rhythm of eating one, then adding one to it, then another for three, then four, then five, then  six all the way to seven at one time. In that experiment alone I consumed no fewer than 26 Sour Chewy Sweetarts and even that was after having warmed up with several single helpings.

Sour Chewy Sweettarts were at one time marketed under the name  "Shockers". Let me tell you they should have respected the truth in advertising inherent with that label. The intensity of tartness conferred from all these ***** Wonka treats was remarkable and very well could have been the most face-squinching sourness I've experienced in my fifty-plus years.

The unfortunate downswing of these hijinks is that I developed a chemical burn that spread across the entirety of my tongue all the back to and including the area where my uvula hangs.

It's my own stupid fault. I could feel the chemicals eating through too many layers of cells long before the administration of candy pellets had reached four, even five-count multiples. By the time I had the seven pack ****** down to gel the burning was so bad I had to squint my eyes. The question that found priority amongst all that came to me at that moment was "how long is my mouth going to be so alternately sensitive and numb that I won't be able to eat my beloved jalapenos and spicy vittles?" A couple of days later and that answer still has not been found, although progress has been made to the point where I have faith it WILL indeed heal...you know how paranoid I can think sometimes, surely my mouth will never heal from THIS god forsaken self-inflicted injury, after all, I deserve it, hence the term "SELF inflicted". It's nothing but payback being it's usual self. If I never get to taste the wondrous seasonings of a well-mixed chili recipe cooked to perfection by someone who really knows how to make chili...if I never sigh with uninhibited satisfaction after downing a swig of Dr. Pepper or Miller's High Life or Guinness Stout...if I never again will be able to tell the difference between prime Angus beef and succulent Maine Lobster it is for good reason that I've been deprived of these tender mercies. It's because I knew when to stop and I kept on eating, though tears had begun to form.

No, it's more than that. It's because Universal Forces were all the while begging me, whispering in  my ears, "Stop! Stop! Enough! No more!" What would have happened if Joseph had ignored the Lord on that cool December night? Gabriel let Mary in on what was going down, what do you think would have happened if she'd gotten jealous of Joseph and disregarded the angel because he didn't have quite as much clout as her husband's Messenger? What would have happened? Nobody knows. But I know what would have happened if I'd heeded the advice of the benevolent spiritual  beings who were trying to warn me to lay off of the Sour Chewy Sweettarts. I wouldn't be sitting here typing on the hp laptop about how I got the chemical burn from hell.

But it seems like valuable lessons may be learned at every turn. So it is that with almost every experience I am resigned to also look at this one as the hard earned silver lining. Just what exactly have I learned? Well, first of all I've learned that it would probably be a good idea in the future to regulate severely the amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts (aka Shockers) I eat in one sitting. If I ever eat them again, If the emotional scars of the chemical burn will free me in my sweet tooth's cravings for Wonka Sugar to ever again opt for the sour stuff. I learned that eating Vlasic Kosher Dill Pickles with such a freshly de-sensitized/throbbing chemically-scorched tongue is a prospect that shares much in common with a full day of taste-testing ghost peppers. Only on a slightly smaller scale does the briny pickle juice pack it's own searing acidic punch.

Other lessons? Oh I'm sure I could fill a book with lessons this has taught me. Writing that book might be the most useful, benevolent gesture I ever offered my fellow man but I don't know if I can do it. But if I did, this would have to be the first couple of lines on the very fist page:

Make sure you're going to have a LOT of alone time the morning after.

But that's just plain good advice.
ccmmaaa  Nov 2018
stop eating
ccmmaaa Nov 2018
stop eating
I look at food like others look at deadly snakes
stop eating
Ive stopped feeling my insides eating itself. I imagine thousands of sharp, white teeth eating me from the inside out. One day i’ll look down and see a little tooth poking out of my soft belly
stop eating
You get used to being dizzy all the time. You become a cheap drunk. You spin it as a positive.
stop eating
When did food become the enemy? Was it ever not?
stop eating
I sell my body to the lowest bidder, i want my weight to match its cost
stop eating
Can you love me more when there’s less of me to love?
Chris Arias Aug 2014
You say fat girls can’t have eating disorders.

When I longingly look at size 0, double zero jeans,
Doll clothes, for dainty ******* princesses,
And shopping becomes the newest form
of cruel and unusual punishment,
It’s okay.
Girls like me are like that,
and
Fat girls can’t have eating disorders.

When I skip a meal,
or two, or three,
Or live for a week on nothing but diet soda and apples,
I think nothing of it,
because
You say fat girls can’t have eating disorders.

When my fingers go down my throat,
shredding skin with ragged nails,
And I obsessively rid myself
of every
single
particle
I am not sick.
There is nothing wrong.
Because
You say fat girls can’t have eating disorders.

You look at me, at my ******* and thunder thighs,
and stretch marks from head to toe,
in all my imperfection
and tell me
Fat girls can’t have eating disorders.

You say fat girls can’t have eating disorders.
Maybe.
But really,
This is just my polite way of suicide.
Needs a lot of work, but just my thoughts for today.
Every couple 'a years or so
Our family reunites
It takes a couple 'a years or so
To recover from the fights

A family like our'n
Doesn't party like most do
Ours gets a little out of hand
That's why we have so few

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball

There's daisy dukes and forty Lukes
They're racing trucks and burning rubber
There's jugs of moonshine everywhere
And at least a hundred bubbas

There's a smoker fired for the food
the size of two large trucks
It hold 4 cows, and fourteen pigs
And at least a hundred ducks

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball

There's pickled this and pickled that
And things you just can't swallow
That used to live down in the swamp
Way back there in the hollow

There's at least ten shotgun weddings there
And the groom might be rail roaded
But, the wedding isn't legal
If the shotgun isn't loaded

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball

There's greased up pigs and muddy runts
And at least ten bobby sues
and when they all get greased up
You can't tell which is who

There's horseshoe pits for tossing shoes
And games of every sort
Most of them aren't legal
And would get you into court

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball

But, it's the way we like it
Drinking shine and acting out
Tossing things that aren't tied down
And wrassling about

There's music there of just one kind
It's country and that matters
Any other sort of sound
Sets the crowd off like mad hatters

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball

There's always someone who's so drunk
And it's normally the preacher
Last year we married him off
To the back up first grade teacher

There's Chevy trucks of every kind
And one covered in sod
Mary Lou showed her tattoo
"Jeff Foxworthy is my God"

It's the best time of the year for us
And it's sad when it must end
but, you gotta haul your *** away
When the cops come round that bend

It's a redneck family reunion
everybody has a grand old time
eating grandma's cooking
and drinking grandpas shine
You never go home hungry
If you make it home at all
You go home bruised and battered
And you surely had a ball
kaitlyn lawrence Oct 2014
Appetites are arbitrary, almost subjective. Growing up, my appetite was like any other kid’s: chips, chocolate milk, maybe an apple or two. My mother was a single mom who worked two jobs, so more often than not, my dinners consisted of a McDonald’s happy meal. What my insatiable hunger lacked was in sports. I had always been more interested in chocolate muffins than playing soccer or soft ball. This may have been supported by my heart condition, but in reality, I knew I just hated sports. So, in turn, most of my time was spent on the couch watching cartoons and eating my bore away.  Eventually, my lifestyle caught up with me, and at the tender age of nine, while in the midst of my cardiac surgery, I had doctors and nurses telling me that I was fat, heavy, obese, and just too big for my age.
​For a long time, these statements did not curb my appetite, they actually reinforced it. Food was the only constant comfort for me, and so I would indulge in almost anything and everything, mostly to the point of sickness. I would binge and binge and binge until I didn’t feel bad anymore, until I felt like my mother liked me, until I felt some of the self-hatred go away. My mother observed my weight gain, and introduced me to a nutritionist in an attempt to understand and maybe find a balance of my caloric intake. But, that was the thing about my eating disorder, it was never in the grey, never faded or opaque. Even in my astrology, I was born as an all-or-nothing soul. For me, it was always black or white; binging until the point of physical sickness, or eating so little that I myself became brittle and grey
​My freshman year of High School was when the starvation really set in. I had finally gotten my first boyfriend, a frail boy who was about 125 lbs smaller than me. My appetite dwindled and faded as did my sanity. I had been in the hospital for suicidal ideation and attempts, and as I dealt and weeded through all of the twists and turns of my mind, I had finally decided that being fat was not going to be my life. Of course, as a recovering self-harmer, my mind thought the only way to fix this was to stop eating all together. But, to be completely honest, it didn’t start out as a bad thing. I tried to just reduce my calorie intake just a bit and maybe go for a jog once in a while, I tried to be smart about it. But my polarized personality quickly took over, and before I knew it I was counting not only calories, but breaths.
​At the point where I had lost almost half my original body weight, I had also lost my appetite for food, friends, family, even living. The hunger I was consumed by could only be satiated by the poignant shadows of my cheek bones, by the dips and valleys of my ribs, through the feeling of leather skin stretched taut over brittle bone. I wanted to be small, I needed to be weightless. But the only ******* tongue would implore for was the taste of stomach acid kissing my lips. The only sustenance my stomach would have was the crisp air of cigarettes and coke zero. The only thing my mind would give me was a quiet attack and endless assaults on my psyche.
​I used my friends and family as a tool to substantiate my fatal way of life. Because of my lifelong struggle with my weight, the photos depicting my weight loss progress were bombarded with comments congratulating me on how great I looked, on how proud of me they were. But what they didn’t know was that they were patting me on the back for not eating for days and days; they were complimenting me on how my sinewy fingers would crawl down my throat and take the little nourishment I had given myself from my stomach; what they didn’t know was that they were happily watching me slowly **** myself.
I knew I wasn’t okay, I knew I was just waiting for rock bottom; I knew I was a dead girl walking. At this point my joints would groan and weep when I walked, and my stomach practically rejected anything I’d give it. I had learned to deal with the hunger pains, and I learned how to hide the scars on my body that my relapsing mind would leave. I was a ghost trapped in a bag of dry, cracking skin beside a pile of fragile, toothpick bones. I believed that I was to die sooner or later, and that that would be it, the pain would be over. But I guess the universe had a different plan for my time on earth.  
It was cold outside, and I had layered myself in cardigans and jackets and parkas. I was walking home from school, to burn a few extra calories that my mind deemed to be immediately terminated. It wasn’t a long walk, maybe twenty minutes if I didn’t stop. Just as I reached the open field, about ten minutes away from my house, it began to snow. My eyes darted up,  too fast for my feeble mind to process, and everything went fuzzy. I knew this meant I was going to pass out, so I hurried home. My feet were able to carry me to the sidewalk before my house steps. But before I could even reach the front door, everything was suddenly black, my eyes rolled back, and my knees fell from underneath me.
My eyes fluttered open as I felt a sharp pain under my head. I look around and see that I have a light layer of snow covering most of my body. I saw that there was blood seeping through my white coat, and that my legs were numb. As I sat up, I realized that I had hit my head, and that there was blood on the ground. My fingers prodded the chunk of skull that was throbbing, and thankfully only found a small little wound. Finally, my legs woke up and I was able to hobble inside, but not without covering up the mess I had made.
When I got inside, I peeled off the layers of cloth to tend to the bruises and scrapes on my arms. What I didn’t expect was the multitude of red lines across my bony wrists, all varying of size, age, and severity.
This was my rock bottom.
I hadn’t even remembered doing it to myself. I did not recall taking that razor from its secret home and running it across my skin. My mind could not pull up the images of red-dotted paper towels and carefully placed band-aids, and this is what scared me the most. The fact that I had been living in such a fog to the point where I could not even remember my own self-mutilation pierced itself to my core, and I began to cry. I cried for myself, I cried for my mother, I cried for my life, because this disease had taken all of those away from me. It dug its way into my brain and fed upon the very core of my being, not giving a **** on the consequences my soul would suffer. It tore out my lungs and veins and flesh, and most importantly my heart. My eating disorder turned me into a vessel. My eating disorder held me captive in my own body for years with the only solace being coke zero and granola bars. My eating disorder took everything away from me, and I willingly allowed it.
​The only appetite I’ve ever had was the desire to be impeccable. I wanted to be perfect, I wanted to be good enough. I wanted to be wanted. But, what I learned was that bones cannot keep you warm in the bitter cold, that the skin I drew so tight over my hollow heart would not hold me together in a tiny little bow, and would eventually break. Finally, the appetite to live was greater than my appetite to die. I learned not to just live but to thrive, and accepted my body with all of its curves and slopes, and even still remembered the sharp corners and valleys that were left behind. Not only did my appetite return to me, but I returned to me, and I am so hungry.

— The End —