There are girls who are stuck in the snow
Embedded deep in the frost
Icicles form inside of their hearts, like sharp, glass blades
Frozen in time, lost in the winter. Lost in the cold.

When you try to show them love and warmth,
They’ll push you away with their burning fingers, keeping their distance from the heat.  

Their tears fall like frozen snowflakes from their frosty eyes.  
Their lips are frozen shut.  They are nothing but numb.

Winter girls have icy veins and icicle blades
Winter girls have snowy smiles that wither and fade
Winter girls will cut you open with one piercing look
From their bittersweet eyes

They only know their blue and black hues
And you don’t have a single clue
How they shiver on the internal
Their winter is forever eternal ~

I’ll put the fork in my eye, and the knife in my heart.
Not the best beginning to a meal, but it’s a start.

Cut the food into tiny pieces.
Nibble on the smallest morsel you can find.
Oh no! Too much! Press pause, and rewind.

Do the only thing you know how to do:
Shrink shrink shrink your food.
Cut it all up until the pieces are so small, you’d need a microscope to see them.
This may take hours.  But at least it will last for the entirety of dinner.

Dinner conversation, make the first initiation.
“How was your day?”  and
“What did you do?”
Whistle for the dog, and “oh no! I dropped my food!”

“School was quite interesting, and my day was great”
You smile as you quietly scrape the demons off your plate
Your hands almost pick up the bread, with a tug and a pull
“I’m buried in homework, thank you mommy, I’m full”

Those lies will send you straight to ****,
You’re rotten with sin.
But a girl’s gotta do anything to stay thin.
Finally, another night, and another win.

An angel’s gotta do a devil’s work to stay looking like an angel, outside and within

A memoir:

”~Happy birthday to you ~”

“Go on, honey, make a wish!”

You close your eyes, your thoughts are tight.
Give it a second, for the voices to unwind.
Don’t get too comfy, but sit back tight.
Tense, emotionless, walls go up, prepare to fight

What could you wish for? What could it be?
Perhaps a new body, or un-broken eyes that see clearly?
Perhaps the willpower to fast longer, or to purge harder than normal,
Or maybe for the eating disorder to disappear,
But that would be too informal.

Only fifteen, but your thoughts are so mean.
I’m guessing your sixteenth won’t be so sweet.
Always shiver and feel cold, but for me, feel the heat.

I won’t let you off that easy,
so don’t keep your hopes up, sweet-pea.
If your family knew what you were thinking,
They would be horrified, that you’re mentally sinking.
Don’t you dream of shrinking?

Your mother probably thinks you’re wishing for something innocent, like happiness or peace.
Instead, a new shell to inhabit or the strength to not eat
Don’t you see, a simple wish is your reward?
Realistically, you should just wish to be in a morgue.  

No more kissing boys or sneaking out late
No more dinner dates or birthday cake
No more dancing in your room, or eating ice cream
No more memorable laughs or sugar-sweet dreams

So, blow out the candles, honey, make a wish
Lick off the frosting, be sure to clean your dish,
Or your secret will be out, if you don’t finish

So, come on, birthday girl, give it a go
Conceal, don’t feel, don’t let them all know
   Put on a show, don’t be exposed
I am your voice, but a friend or a foe?

“Did you make your wish, honey?”

Your eyes glisten with sadness.  

“Yes, mommy, I did.” ~

Do want to see real poetry?
Then you must ***** yourself *****.
Vulnerable, exposed, raw.
And look into the mirror.
Observe. Examine. Critique.  
Grab.  Pinch.  Scream.  

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must take a pretty looking blade
And feel it scritch-scratch against your thighs
Even better, do it in public, secretly
Because the adrenaline might remove your hunger  

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must wrap some yellow tape around your stomach
The big, bold, black number measurements jumping out at you
Wrap it a bit too tightly, so you can feel your insides shrink forcibly smaller, suffocating you.
And that is art.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must religiously memorise the numbers in every nutritional thing that you come across
Your only talent is being a human calculator
And fasting longer than a normal person can
But you’re not normal.  You’re sick. Twisted.
But that is art.  That is poetry.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must puke out every last bite that you consume.
Then, you must scrub scrub scrub your teeth until your gums bleed profusely and the smell of ***** is overcome by the scent of peppermint toothpaste

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must exercise, until you literally drop unconscious from exhaustion.  Other than that, there are no excuses to stop.  Count your bruises, and those will determine how long you need to keep going.
Pushing yourself over the limit is art.
Art always over exceeds and goes to the extreme.
And we are over achievers, aren’t we?

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must go to your vanity mirror,
And you must drive your fist into the glass,
Do it so fast, that you will barely be able to feel the glass shattering against your knuckles and wedging deep inside of your skin.

If you want to see real poetry,
Then you must stand in front of your bathroom mirror,
Silver handled knife in hand,
And snip-snip-snip all along your stomach
Close your eyes.  Bite your tongue.  Pretend you’re cutting a model out of a magazine.
You must do this until you see stars.
Until the bright, fluorescent bathroom lights fade away and become pitch black.  
Until the sounds fade, and the smell of copper fades, and the feeling of pain fades, until you’re numb.

You want to see true poetry?
Keep pushing yourself until this ultimately kills you.
All poems end.  All artists add a “final touch” to their paintings.
You are a poem.  You are art.
Your final touch is the kiss of death.  
It’s beautiful, isn’t it?
Or is it sick? ~

Who could ever love a girl, who wears her sadness on her face like makeup?  

Who could ever kiss a girl, with ***** on her sore lips? With the acidic after-taste of ice cream on her tongue, crying as she sobs over the toilet?

Who could ever hug a girl, whose spine sticks out so far, that it stabs your soft and warm fingertips?
The only thing you feel, are her ribs sticking out against your chest, not the soft layers of skin that her body should have.  

Who could ever touch a girl, with cuts all over her stomach and her thighs?
When you want to make love, you might be turned off at the unattractive scars that are scattered across her body.

Who could ever love a girl, who stands in front of the mirror, picking and prodding and sobbing for hours on end, until her voice is raw and empty, and she can scream no longer?

Who could ever go on a date with a girl,
Who spends her time calculating the calories, rather than what she’s gonna wear? Or a girl who thinks about how she’s gonna throw her expensive meal up, rather than listen to you talk about your hobbies and passions?

Who could ever sleep with a girl, who has nightmares of her demons eating her alive?
And when you go to cuddle a soft, warm body, all you feel are her bones stabbing you, and the bumpy outlines of her scars.  

Who could ever love a girl who cries?
A girl who always thinks of her own demise?

Who could ever love a girl who lies?
A girl who thinks of ways to die?

These are the things she asked herself
Before she chose to end her life
They all knew that all she ever did was cry
Did’t anyone ever think to ask her “Why?”

It’s not her body that he loved, it was the shell that she was inside of, but she killed it.

“Young girls are supposed to look like Beauty Queens”
That’s what she read in those magazines
“To be the prettiest girl that the world has seen”

When she learned what calories were, she began to see food as numbers.
She learned to normalise skipping meals,
And to tolerate the hunger.
She learned that calories must burn.
Wait in line to slowly die, until it is your turn.
Learning girls aren’t perfect, so when they over-eat,
Crying and whining and moaning in defeat,
They must purge their food, without a single pout,
Because what goes in the girl, must always come out.

“Change” is her favourite word because nothing about her is right
She gropes at her imaginary flaws because her beauty is nowhere in sight
Her body burns in the shower.
Her deep wounds are shaped like thorns on a flower
Numbers run through her mind, counting and calculating the math
She’s too weak to stand any longer, so she sits and takes a bath

“Maybe, just maybe, I am pretty now”
No! You’re a whale, a pig, a massive cow!
“Maybe, just maybe, I am pretty enough”
No, you must keep going, even if it gets tough!
“Maybe, just maybe, I am actually sick
No, they are lying! What they say is a trick!
“Maybe, just maybe, the magazines are a lie”
No! If you’re not pretty and thin your only use is to die

She dries off and sits in her room,
Alone and sad, succumbing to gloom
Unwrapping her towel, she looks in the mirror with despair.
Feeling her bare skin, and all the fat that’s not there.
She knows what she needs to do.  
And all the voices do too.
She grabs the scissors off her desk
And drags them slowly down her chest
Swiftly opening and closing the blade on her thighs
Cutting off the “fat” and letting out piercing cries
Her world goes dark, and she falls down to the floor
Dizzy and numb, but she still tries to cut more
Her memories of her childhood flash before her eyes
From her very first hello, to her final goodbye

She wondered if this was even worth it at all
As a child, someone asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up,
And she said:
“small” ~

I thought I was smart enough to know that five m&m’s isn’t a meal

i just want to scream at them that theydont get to care now
they dont get to pretend that they never hurt me
not without saying sorry
not without telling me why
why that for years they ignored me
no matter how hard i tried
no matter what i did or said or didn't do
they never tried for me then
not when i needed them
not when i was screaming for help
but now
now that im okay and can handle myself
they care

If you could travel back in time
And meet yourself as a little child
What would you tell yourself?

If I could travel back in time
And meet myself as a little child
I would tell her, that she’s perfect just the way she is. That she’s fine.  She’s so fine, that she doesn’t need to be anything else.  Her small, growing body does NOT deserve to go through years of starvation and self-induced vomiting like it did.  She didn’t need to stick her fingers down her throat to look like a runway model, because she’s just fine.  

That little girl, laughing with big, doe eyes
And dewy lips coated in sugar
******* on lollipops and eating too many cookies with her friends, didn’t deserve this.  If only she knew that her happiness would be very short-lasting.  If she knew, she would’ve savoured those moments very dearly; but instead, she went on giggling in the sunshine, unaware that she will be lying in a hospital bed with a tube in her nose a few years later.

I would hug her, and hold her little 4’8 frame, and tell her that she needs to grow strong.  If you never eat, you never grow.  She needs to make sure her bones are iron-strong and her mind is sharp and fierce, and if she wants to chase her dreams, she can, and she can chase her dreams and achieve many things without needing to starve herself.  

Instead, she believed that skipping meals meant that she could conquer anything.  The only thing she would conquer is a trip to the ER and a near-death experience from malnutrition.  

Little girl with bright and peachy eyes,
Now that you don’t have to perfect, you can be good.

Go out and buy yourself some diet pills
Take them for the purpose of a thrill
Exercise like it’s your religion
***** the good and bad decisions
Starving isn’t fun, but someone ought to do it
You were destined to be skinny and you knew it


Watch some fashion shows
Watch them thrice
Take all of their advice


Fat free, carb free,
Sugar and ice
Bread isn’t nice
***** rice
ALWAYS put up a fight

You want bread, it’s all in your head
You want to be fed, but you wish you were dead
You were born with a knife in your heart
As a child you were struck by a hundred darts, of the cruel words of society and of the jittery snicks of the sugar plum fairy girls, with their angelic faces and porcelain skin, black sockets for eyes and with the devil, akin.
Angels don’t exist here, only devils within.

Scrub your raw, bleeding gums
Until pretty girl juice dribbles from the razor sharp corners of your mouth
Trickling past your rotting teeth
Your skin, sallow and an expired yellow.
Purple spider veins strung out across your arms and legs, connecting the dots from the gaping stab wounds made by your mother’s sharp, bone-handled knife, which you snuck from the kitchen drawer.  Truly an antique. But now, antique and rusted with your blood.

Your mouth is filled with dirt and bugs
No more innocence, no more kisses and hugs
You aren’t your mother’s little girl anymore
You’re now the devil’s successful corpse

Dirt filled girls.  Dead rotting girls.
Expired girls.  Decomposing girls.
Hush, no one can hear you because
Dead, rotten girls can’t speak anymore
When they try to open their empty mouths, all that comes out are hollow screams and shrieks that pierce the void of the suffocating air in their coffin
Worms and roaches seep inside their bloated skin, making them itchy, itchy, itchy.
Dead, rotten girls can’t complain.
The devil’s thirst is quenched, and now he ate.
You begged for this fate.