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ffc1 Nov 10
So it comes to me
Shrinking me,
Bringing me down
Diluting my thoughts
Dimming my mind

It lurks beneath the boards
Knows where I am, knows how I live
Comes to maim, stays to ****
So it lurks
So it kills

It comes, sees my pain
Knows where to strike to scar
It lives in all places, possesses all people
So it comes
So it haunts

Never it leaves, forever within
Reigns in isolation
Controls when alone
Here it comes
Here it stays
Luna248 Nov 8
I'm not an obvious kind of pretty
I don't have natural blonde hair
Or bright blue eyes
No perky little *****
No gap between my thighs
I don't look like anyone else
I bleach my own hair
Use drug store eyeshadow
And **** shopping in Topshop

I have lumps and bumps
Cellulite and pudge
Blackheads and bacne
And prodigious pours
A recipe for nothing special at all!
Just someone average
Who has a bright twinkle
In her fog grey eyes
And curvy hips and ****
That sway in the sun

You have to look close
To see all my beauty
I'm not a runway model
Or a ******* bunny
Just someone on the sidelines
Watching the runway models and bunnies
While they get the attention
And I get brushed by
It's not obvious that I'm beautiful
Until you look into my eyes
Until you see my semi-white smile
Then you notice the little moles
The red and silver scars
The way my body curves
In a voluptuous ans peachy way
And then you see
Just how ******* perfect I am
David Abraham Oct 31
The little boy in gray doesn't smile often,
and his breathing is so shallow,
they may ask again,
"are you sure that he is breathing? Are you sure that he's alive?"
and rest assured his body's trying
to keep him alive
despite how much he breaks it down
and watches nonchalantly as it drowns.

He longs for poison to taint his blood
and strengthen the walls that creep up around him
(those **** weeds that stole the color of the ground
and choked out the bound
to be life that would have sprung up at his feet).

He constricts himself like a snake,
and lets himself bleed,
as if all this hurt was not by his hands (callused and uneven and scraped down to bone),
he still cries
as the water rushes down his back
and stings his dull eyes.
He still cries when the hunger grips him and won't let go
even though
he did all this.

The little boy in gray ignores all of this
and continues in his silence
to the outside world,
for he is one among many,
and those others are so worthy.
0644 Halloween 2018

People at school constantly make trans/*****/anorexia jokes and it's awful. I'm used to ***** jokes but the other two are slightly less common and wow idk just wish they would stop
Lot May 2017
Every queen must have a throne,
but mine is cheap and flimsy.
A plastic chair made in China,
worth less than a dollar,
swaying under my weight.
To stay from falling,
whenever I sit,
I keep myself light and fit.
I stay perched in reticence,
balancing the paper crown
upon my jaded head.
As tendrils of brown hair,
fall to the floor in plain.
Hands and feet crossed,
bound in leather and chains.
Try not to be your own worst enemy.
David Abraham Aug 24
I want to feel.
I want to cry again at night
so I can't lose sight
of what matters.

I want to feel.
I want to be happy even when I'm not empty
so that I can be so happy I'm as nice as can be.

I want to feel.
I want to be so angry that I can cut myself
without needing to make up a reason
for just wanting to see myself become a ****** mess.

I want to feel.
I want to feel so much terror
at seeing myself again
that I keep fighting until Monday,
and the next,
and the next,
until I can't keep living.
Sky Aug 22
Every day feels like Winter. Sad and dreary, and cold.
You’re young and numb, but you feel so tired and old.
Summer isn’t Summer. Spring isn’t spring.
Seasons don’t matter, now they're just a dreaded thing.
The virus has devoured your mind, you aren’t even alive.
You used to walk hundreds of steps, but now, barely even 5.
Your heart is slower than your thinking.
Your sunken eyes are tired of blinking.
You want to give up, but the disease says no.
You wish that this deadly thing would just go.
All you are is skin and bone,
and you beg your voices to leave you alone,
but they won’t.

Your hair is dead and just dry straw, but you didn’t need it anyway.
Your fingernails are breaking off, but you didn’t need them anyway.
Your teeth are rotting one by one, but you don’t smile much anyway.
Your bones are next, since they are brittle and breaking,
What will it take to stop this internal aching?
As the virus eats your flesh, in your week old sweater,
you remember what it was like to be… better.

The sad thing is, you’ll continue to decay and let the voices rave,
even if it means that you will soon be placed in a concrete grave.
because at least you’ll feel pretty and alone,
proud of what’s left of your skin and bone.
Except you won’t be alive to be aware of yourself.
how sickening and skeletal you have made yourself.
you looked no different when you were alive,
except you were just living, but still dead inside.
You wear death perfectly, since this is who you are
and what you wanted.

At least no one can look at you.
At least no one can make you eat.
At least you can’t be tempted by a delicious treat.
At least no one can bother you, and let you rest in peace.
No mirrors to look in for hours and cry.
No more complaining that you wish you would just die.
No more worries, or sadness, or pain.
Your mind is gone and you're no longer insane.
You can sleep forever under the stars, and i suppose,
you can finally turn into nature, while you decompose.
And the best of all, is that you're no longer in your own skin.
No longer in your pitiful body, so technically, you win.
You’re a fresh soul who can no longer grieve,
and everything has left, and what’s left will leave.
Until you’re empty. Like you've always been.

But that hasn't happened yet.
Your mind is fading, and you always forget,
That you're still real, but you hate feeling real,
because you can still hurt, you can still feel.
You wish you could unzip your skin and set it on fire,
and watch it perish, in it’s disgusting attire.
At least you can disintegrate in that bed of yours.
Give in to all of your vicious wars.
But when it leaves temporarily, you still beg for more.
That’s how you know that you're sick to your very core.
You’ve been suffering this all alone,
You never leave the house, yet you feel like you aren't home.
And when this weather gets worse and hits you like a stone,
And the rain has fallen and the wind has already blown,
And this Winter climbs up your spine, and chills you to the bone,
You were once human. You would’ve never known.
This last day feels like Winter. Sad and dreary, and cold.

I hope that the broken disordered recover one day.  There is beauty through the broken, but you shouldn’t need to be broken to be beautiful.
David Abraham Aug 22
I love the feeling
of starvation, so blessed she,
filling every void.

So much empty space
in my clothing, and body,
waiting to be filled.
i'm so mad at myself because i'm still fat hhhhhufcbhnjhvfbjn
Sky Aug 21
Pretty dying girls

It doesn’t really matter if you’re hungry
You’re not even going to eat
You aren’t a loser, you’ll win this game
It’s a game you have to defeat
It’s hot outside and you’re really cold
You’re young, small body is feeling old
You feel so starved down to your soul
Keep it up honey, you’re on a roll
You want to be half but you are whole
You hate this game but you’re in control
To feel in control you must pay the price
It doesn’t cost much, just your life
No matter what, you’re always alone
It’s you and me, it’s written in stone
You’ve lost everything that you love and own
But at least you have your beautiful bones
Your body hates you but that’s okay
Everyone has left, but I’ll always stay
That was my goal all along
To make you guilty, to make you feel wrong
Everything I say is helpful, everything I say is the cure
You don’t want to feel disgusting, do you? Don’t you want to be pure?
Tiny, Angelic, Dainty and Delicate
Everything else is completely irrelevant
You’ll never feel shameless, you’ll be the greatest
Listen to me darling, don’t you want to be weightless?
Tired, gaunt, pointless and twisted
The girl you’ve been talking to never existed
It’s all in your head, but your head is her home
You’ve got nothing left to control, but your brittle little bones
David Abraham Aug 11
Maybe I'm shooting in the dark.
Maybe I'm shooting at something that's not really there.
It doesn't feel fair
that I have to be
such a lousy shot.

I'm not a robot.
I'm not calculating.
I'm not cold and defining.

I might be running through rivers of black ink.
I might be breathing in the noise.
I might be doing anything at all, but I don't think
I could fail to notice.

I'm not just ignorant,
I know what's happening,
but I can't admit anything at all.
I'd rather fall

into the staining, screaming streams
that claw at my callused feet.
I'm running
with no street
to follow.

The shining ink's close
to me, but it's not
how I want to go.

I really am flailing at nothing,
but I realize
I was never breathing words,
I was breathing in these thick and heavy woods.

I can't keep running.
I've destroyed that part of myself.
I keep the perfect things on a shelf
where I can't reach them.

Please, tell me again
how I am not breathing in
your words like oxegyn.

My lifeline, my lifeline.
I can't find it.
I'm drowning, I'm drowning.

Pulling muscle and
refusing to keep it down
preparing to drown.
That moment when the only thing you'll put near your mouth is ink.

August 11th, 2018.
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