Sit up straight,
you're not pretty when you seem so relaxed.
Suicide season only comes once a year,
there's no other time for sadness here.

Never spend any money on food,
buy expensive clothes to please everyone else,
even though you live all of your life in solitude.

Spread yourself too thin by biting off more than you can chew,
keep reminding yourself that discipline is a virtue.

You're becoming so distant from the rest,
and the finish-line is blurry now.
You're not sure if they're overlapping you or you're the one that's winning,
yet you feel it is both somehow.

Make it through another Autumn and fall into Winter,
and maybe this time you can walk alone in the snow without leaving a footprint.
It will be beautiful,
it will be pure,
it will be worth it,
I am sure.

An abominable thought comes to mind:
You can crash your car violently enough so that it will ruin your entire face, it will be a blank slate, and then no one can judge you for getting plastic surgery.
You might actually look better that way.

A cognitive distortion
blown out of proportion,
it haunts my mind every day.

she promised me never to do it again
she promised to try stay happy

but it wasn't that easy
i took her weapon she found a new one

and before i got to take a second breath
her towels stained red again...

*(c.m.h)

so beautiful
yet so sad

so happy on the out side
yet so dark on the inside

so loved
but yet she hates herself

she's like everyone else
but yet so different

*(c.m.h)

Every night
And every morning
I stare at my body
Trying to figure out
Who could possibly love someone
With so much extra

So much extra
That has nowhere to go
But out

I roll over
And see the extra gather
Who could love that?
Not I, not anyone

Less is more
I'm not asking to be the most
I'll eat less to be less
Not realizing that I'm blessed
With a body that works
And does what I ask of it

It just isn't pretty enough for me

"You're too skinny",
says my love
just as the dawn
breaks through
the window shades.

The seconds
turn into sobs.
With every tear
another bone
protrudes.

All:
cheekbones,
hipbones
and ribs.
My rings
slip off my fingers,
jeans slide down,
the numbers
on the scale
decrease;
these moments,
a triumph.

There's no
stopping her,
no turning away.
She's taken over;
demanding:
SMALLER THAN SMALL.

I answer with:
obsession,
body checking;
an overpowering
need
to be weightless.

I close the door
on him
and the silly ideas
of getting well.
Turning to her,
we hold fragile hands;
I whisper,

"Together, till the end."

Anorexia is not collar bones.
It is the smell rotting of flesh as you dismantle your body bit by bit.
Anorexia is not a thigh gap, it is your knees so weak they shake as you fall to the ground.

Anorexia is not self control. It is the feeling of utter hopelessness as your life tornados into a blizzard of nothingness.

Anorexia is not fashionable. It is your mother’s sobbing eyes as she sees her child dying
Anorexia is not 80 pounds. It is the weight of a thousand pulsing suns on your shoulders.
A thick black cloud in your mind, and rules spelled out like chains pulling you towards the ground.
No matter what measure of gravity that you have in this earth, it still hurts, it’s still real.
So to you 'pro anas' who so blindly say 'hunger hurts, but starving works' think before you act.
Suffering is an addiction, please do not harm yourself with this affliction.
- *Emily Ward