when nothing-girl met everything-girl,
the world broke open
and their fingers intertwined subconsciously
and they looked into the core of earth
and laughed together at the irony of it all

nothing-girl put down her grandmother's blade
and used her right hand to instead hold everything-girl's
their laughter rang out across the valleys
echoed in caves and through churches
and god stared down at them as they pressed their lips together

That girl sitting there
is a beautiful tragedy
her mind is an aghast
her body
is her grave
her bones
ache
while her throat is being strangled
whats wrong with her mind
cant ever be untangled.
she,
is a beautiful tragedy

fingers ice cold
identity pinned on arbitrary digits
spilling the rotten flowers from her insides
counting pumps of panic juice
one, two, three. not enough.
she scrubs until her hands are red and raw.
four, five, six. they're not clean enough just yet.
waking up freezing and covered in sweat,
voice filling up volumes,
feeling every person who has ever
touched her skin.
sitting and shaking in spanish class,
quietly looking up the number of sleeping pills she needs
to get into her wretched body
in order to disappear forever.
craving the feeling of the cold blade on her hot skin
the red ribbons erupting onto her sheets
blinding anger, sadness, grief turns to
physical pain
staring at "severely underweight bmi" girls
scribbling on her injured wrist what she needs
to get to that point. she's almost there.
**** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself, she writes.
**** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself. **** yourself.
one day, she breaks,
dying a thousand deaths as sirens wail
peeling the tape off the IV they attached to her vein
hearing her mother cry
liver damage. severe blood loss. hallucinations. stitches necessary. psych ward? she's convulsing. must be in shock.
finding herself surrounded by broken girls and boys
in a white-walled facility
made for lunatics, just like her.
smiling through session after session until they say,
she's ready.
scraping through as she plans
how to keep the dead flowers just for herself.
months later, finding herself
in another home for lunatics
tiny quiet shaking girls just like her
being fed sugar water through her nose
on her eighth day, saying
a single first word to her therapist.
okay.
sharing a room with a wrinkly zucchini of a girl
turning pink and crying when
the soft soul walks in the room,
finally giving her a beautiful flower to hold.
all her hidden blossoms spilling out of her chest
ugly, shameful plants finally revealed
for the first time in many moons,
she's no longer ashamed of them.
falling in love with the girl two doors over,
erupting into giggles
sneaking around the milieu wearing
rose coloured-glasses,
fingers intertwined.
sitting in a circle of winter girls,
our flowers resting on our laps,
our fingers warmed by
the touch of one another.

I reincarnate my past every time I meet someone new
I feel the need to bleed out my imperfections as a preface of what I might do, could do, want to
Is it a lie to push down the thing that once made us whole?
Even if that thing doesn’t live in us anymore?

My brain is wired this way,
obsessed with everything other than 
what it ¨should¨ be
With being small enough that if I breathe
my skin may start to bleed from
the aching bones inside of me.
The obsession with being perfect
or to be anyone,
other than me.

welcome to ana heaven
where people are collar bones
and thigh gaps are God

we are fragile, like petals
the only simile that saves me
from the harsh reality

i don’t look at you, i look through you
x-ray vision desecrates you
i don’t see you as human
i see bones

you are not thin yet, child
come with me, and it’ll be worth your while
or you collapse into the clouds
and god forbid, you fall back to Earth

stay in play land
where we live off tea and acid reflux

where we spit up food
and giggle like babies
at the sight of our malnourished bodies


give me ana heaven, sick skin
give me laxatives, stick thin

or i have nothing at all.

I could say I am sorry,
But I am not.
Because on the one hand it is a choice,
(But then again it isn’t.)
It’ll take me 3 months and 22 days,
a caloric deficit of 700,
7 hours of gymnastics a week,
half an apple instead of one,
skipping lunches three times a week,
discipline, motivation and strength,
but one day, I will be where I want to be.

I have a goal, a very specific number,
and as for now, it’s all just in my head,
and –actually- I’ve never really liked numbers ,
in school I always hated maths,
but - since I’ve started measuring every inch of happiness,
since I keep my feelings locked up in measuring cups,
I cannot imagine living without them anymore.
It feels good to have a goal again.

So, when I pinch my skin,
and cry myself to sleep at night over a *******,
when I hate myself for being myself,
I could say that I am sorry,
to me, to anyone.
But the truth is, I am not.
Not yet.
I still have a goal to finish.

Anxiety
It's there when I eat
And it's right next to me when I fall asleep
It's there when I'm walking
And it's leaning over my shoulders when I cry
I've learnt to live this way
The crippling fear of being alive has consumed me
It's always there
It graps me, pulls me in, leans over for a kiss, but puts a knife right through my back
I can still taste the fear on my lips as I go down on my knees
I never went this low to the ground
I feel dizzy as I try to pull myself up
But it keeps on pushing me back
I will never get up
Anxiety

Cakes, cookies, cheese
Oh can I have them please
Burgers, dogs, fries
I can’t live with all these lies

Friends, fakes, foes
Oh what I’d do for some ** hos
Mascara, lipstick, eyeliner
I wish I was in a greasy diner

Short skirts and high heels galore
I’m starting to look like a *****
They say they’re worried of my composure
They are the reason I changed my figure

Skin and bones they say
But they said I was the size of a sleigh
I did this for them to make them happy
But here I am unhappy and former fatty