Your body against mine,
no fabric in between.
Your body so smooth,
nothing but perfection to me.
Heart races,
beads of sweat build on our skin.
Penetrates deep,
and diving deeper.
Pure ecstasy.

I want to write a poem about you
and use patches of my skin
instead of nouns
the passion of druids instead of
verbs
All I need is
Radiohead and
space to breath
in
your
breathing

(the body imagines what the mind can't)

I would take pictures
of myself on facebook but I would rarely ever wear a smile.


I would not take selfies not for attention and not for love from any love else.


They were just daily reminders  and the cruel reality was that I have always hated the way I looked.


I obsessed over my weight and thought if I did look skinnier that I would look great.

A  few times in my life I had to face my inner battle head on
it has won me an few times in my life.


At certain points in my life I rejected eating and enjoying my food.

All the fat comments took my joy of eating away, they were  
so vile and rude.

Being shouted at in the street and called the fat loser.  

In this period of my life I had an year of self hatered and defeat.

The eating issue was hard to beat.  
I would get triggered
if anyone mentioned anything relating to my weight if it was just another joke.


The echo of the rude comments
would stand out in my brain
repeating the same rude line.
"Your a fat loser"

Even when people in my family
said I was looking fine and were more concerned about my health.

The voice in my head would keep shouting that these are all lies.

I said to people around me
please do not keep mentioning
about my weight and just talk
about other topics.

Dont keep feeding the hate that is already there when there are plenty of things out than just talking about my weight.


It only magnifies the issue of the ED
and this makes it tougher to fight inside my mind.

I have accepted my ED and dealt
with some of my inner pain
that is only half the battle, in my own head I must learn to accept and love my body, be happier and eat more regularly without feeling any dread, guilt and remorse.


Love my self, ignore the haters and horrible cruel comments that have always stood out in my mind.

The comments and thoughts
are always going to be there
but I now I know I really dont care as much about this  
and to not let it control my life.


The rude people in the street
might have won the battle at the time
for a short while
but they never won the whole war over me.

I have choose now to accept my fate, eat again and be more health. Learning to love myself again and that is the final score.

As if my body

is new, and I, again, have --


to search for the brake.

it’s 2pm PST
my PTSD is eating me
ring finger on control key
my poor and lonely body

You stand there in a field
Of gentle grass and daffodil

The butterflies gossip in dances
The breeze sweet as honey
Haloed sun on your head

And I feel you smile at me
So soft, so wanted
Cradling in your hands
My heart

A gory mass of muscle and tissue
Pulsating and twitching
like a nightmare struggling
To tear it’s desperate fingers through its
******, oozing womb

And I lay under you
skin gorged, ribs cracked
Wheezing through smoker’s lungs
clinging on by a few dripping strands
of fleshy tubing

And my hands claw the earth
nails mangled and nerves ragged
But my eyes fix
Enraptured
despite these things scrabbling
at my irises
As I strain
To catch a glimpse
of
your


face

This is like Simon Says,
But this time you subject Simon to ridicule because of what she stands for.
In a sport where one is meant to speak out,
Fat girl says but you refuse to hear.
Fat girl says she wants to stand up,
But you tell her that she's too heavy for the heels she wears.
Fat girl says she wants to take a break,
And you tell her she’s too lazy for her own good.
Fat girl says she wants to wear a skirt,
But you tell her that her legs are too big.
All she wants to do is speak her truth,
But you see her as the embodiment of sloth.
She wants to speak on her insecurities,
And you want to strip her of that right.
You say she needs to work harder,
Drop a few sizes,
To fit into a suit,
That is unflattering in all the right ways
But when she tries to explain
Tries to be better
Tries to be someone different
Her efforts become inconsequential to the state of her mentality.
This is supposed to be a place where she can speak.
Fearlessly.
Courageously.
Unapologetically.
But you have silenced her under the pressure of standards.
You have torn her down and stripped her confidence.
You’ve taken away her ability to love herself.
You have constricted her into a box where it is not okay to overflow.
Where it’s not okay to be big and beautiful
Where it’s not okay to be fat.
She is fat.
Fat girl says she’s fat.
And it’s time that you become okay with that.

Like a question mark,

she lies naked on my bed --


pale, a bit of moon.

This useless meat sack. I am the thing watching behind the eyes of this empty meat sack. I am the one piloting this sausage of a body, directing it to walk, talk, smile.
Sometimes I wish that I could reach into my chest and tear it open. I want to rip and tear and slice past the epidermis, watch the white fatty cells and veins and arteries moving. I want to see white, bone-white, a cage for my useless heart. Watch my heart pump like those sheep hearts we used to dissect in science. I remember how they looked, white fat clinging like ivy, and greying in the cool room of the labs. Nothing but a cold, clammy lump of flesh. Maybe death smells like the butchers. Like bleach that can’t cover the festering smell of rot and ammonia.
I’m heavy on my ankles. I remember the last time I starved, and I felt as if I could fly, balanced on my tip-toes, poised to fall. And maybe falling felt just as good.
It’s so unbearably soft. My chest, my arms. I can feel my cheek meat. Fat on bones. Scrape it out with a spoon like pork cheeks, soft, tender, delicious.
A chrysalis. A cut-out, a hollow man wearing hollow shoes doing hollow things. How did that pupa feel, I wonder, trapped in darkness? No way out but forward. The growing pains, tendons and bones and muscles warping. Twisting and crawling but transforming, little by little. Into what, you can’t possibly imagine. The uncertainty, it’s almost as bad as the darkness. No change even when you open your eyes, like colours have frozen into little dizzying pixels. You can’t stop, but do you want to? On the precipice between weakness and a terrifying something else, what can you be but monstrous? Not one or the other but neither.
What are you turning into? A butterfly? A monster? Neither?
You can’t stop.