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comparing bodies
a (never) once (never) over
from across the room
sizing you up, i have
such a kink
for everything your body is

such a kink
for comparing you to me

such a kink
if kinks were self esteem

such a kink
for everything i can’t be

but **** do i feel good
when your body covers mine;
being blanketed
in hopeless aspiration,
it feels sublime
this perspiration,
when i can’t feel the weight of what i lack

only the bulk of what you’ve got
Apparently
I have a pear shaped figure
Or maybe an apple
But definitely not the string bean
That I was trying so hard to obtain.

It’s kind of ironic
That my body in recovery
resembles the very thing
That I tried so hard to avoid
The entire time I was sick.

Thankfully
I’ve learned to appreciate
The deliciousness of these precious fruits
Rather than fearing
Their delicate sweetness

Which is why
Next time someone tells me
I have hips like an apple
I’ll just smile
And thank them.
anastasia Sep 23
her skin is jaundiced, quite like the color of the sky before a storm
if you look at her long enough you can almost smell the petrichor on her skin.
her ribs are not unlike the rungs of a ladder
(climb if you dare, but the fall is a long one with no end in sight).
delicate fingers have been burned at the touch of acid and bones have been made brittle.
her nails: jagged, each impacted with crescent moons of soil.
the digging is ceaseless.
she is searching for something she will never find, for something that never was
yet it beacons like a lighthouse on the horizon
a sign of safety but blinding if you sneak a closer look.
she slinks along the edge of her unremitting chasm,
dancing with the devil throughout the evening,
but the night draws on and she comes dangerously close to stepping on his toes.
her rhythm is all wrong, the metronome from above is feeding her lies,
but she is greedy and devours them all.
the gnawing inside her returns.
the gnawing inside her takes over,
her eyes begin to wilt as the burden of seeing only in grey engulfs them.
to sleep she goes under the spell of the guilt washing over her like the sweet, sticky air of the summer.
Laura Sep 7
When you hold me
I forget to be insecure
About my size
About my numbers
About my body
I forget to worry
About my lumpy thighs
About my jiggly tummy
About my pudgy arms
You ****** each limb
And kiss every inch
As if none of it matters
As if you don't care
That I'm fat
You aren't afraid to touch
My cellulite
My bumps
My pudge
The things
Nobody else wanted
Nobody else would touch
Nobody else saw as desirable
You touch them
You hold them
You kiss them
You make love to them
You flat out love them
Because for some reason
You don't care
Skin
Fingernails, moonlight, low-light
What’s the beast in the mirror I see?
It stares at me, it’s features moaning a sad soliloquy
I find it’s eyes, green, green, the colour of envy
Envy. Envy.
I find myself stretching skin.
Skin, it’s anthropomorphism deeply disturbs me
Why can’t I take it off
Peel it off, rip it off, burn it off, cut it off
Snip, snip
The more I stare the more it crumbles, it crumbles
I paint it’s mask with lacquer but the same pair of green eyes stare at me
What is that, who is that beast
The low-light consoles me but still I see it for what is
Me
when the body dysmorphia hits u ****
Laura Aug 22
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
Wear dresses from the clearance rack
That show the red bumps after shaving my legs

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

You have to look close
To see all my beauty
I'm not a model
Or a ******* bunny
Just someone on the sidelines
Watching the 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 silver scars
The way my body curves
In a voluptuous way
And you see
Just how perfect I am
megan Aug 21
distorted view,
piece of glass,
i am society’s lower class.
Kaylah S Jul 23
I don’t like my  body
I would say hate but it’s a a harsh word but in reality that’s what I really mean.
I don’t like my body.
My best friend is skinny,
She tells me that she wants to go on weight gainers,
I don’t want her to go on them because, “it’s just chemicals and it could **** her like they did my cousin,”
On one hand that’s my reasoning but in reality I just don’t want her to feel the way I feel about myself every time i look in the mirror or see myself in pictures.
Now that won’t fix her problem but I’d rather do everything in my power to make others feel comfortable in their own skin rather then working on me.
I diet.
I diet all the time but I can’t seem to stick with it.
I start by downloading a bunch of calorie tracking apps.
I desperately try to stay under the the amount the tracker tells me I need to stay under.
I do fairly well.
I try to work out.
I try little cheats.
But none of this matters because I can’t see the physical results.
Time for the tape measure.
My *** isn’t getting bigger.
My stomach isn’t shrinking.
Nothing is happening so I must ****.
Or I’m just destined to have no hips and a muffin top.
My friends have all heard it time and time again, “IM ON A DIET!”
But they know I can’t stick to it,
They know I can’t do it.
When I give up I gorge on the things I took away from myself.
I eat so much I feel disgusted with my existence.
I didn’t mean to eat that much.
I shouldn’t of eaten that much.
That’s why I’m fat.
But I can’t shake this cycle.
I stare at other girls.
Not because I like them but,
Because I want to look like them.
I want the flat stomach or at least the even proportions.
Plus sized.
Skinny.
Curvy.
Surgically enhanced.
And many more,
All better than mine.
There’s no name for me, whatever it is I don’t want it anymore.
I want to love my body and I feel like losing this extra weight is the only way but then I’m side tracked by these bloggers.
You know these self love and self care bloggers on twitter.
Saying you don’t need “this” the be pretty and you don’t need “that” to be ****.
“Be your own definition of beautiful”
How?

To the bone I am becoming,
losing track of what I wanted to be,
I'll find myself being pencilled in
with grayscale tones painted over me.

To the bone I am becoming,
break my fingers, my limbs and my soul,
you'll touch me as you wish, burning me thin,
'til I'm fragile - no parts of a whole.

To the bone, I am becoming,
even though I'm desperate to try,
because all I can taste is your hands on my skin
and bitter and dark was the fight.

To the bone, I am becoming,
I'm addicted to losing control.
My bedroom is littered with matchsticks and gin,
To the bone
To the bone
To the bone.
~~ Trying, failing, rinse and repeat. ~~
Em Quinn Jun 14
when i was younger,
my mom would turn the mirror to me with bright eyes.

"look at my beautiful girl!"
she'd say.
her truth was the only one that mattered,
and so i'd smile,
crooked teeth and disheveled hair
because, well,
if she thought i was beautiful,
surely i was.

i'm sixteen, it's been ten years.
time has worn my confidence thin.


i can't look in the mirror anymore.
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