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Jay Jul 2017
You tell me I am wrong to think the way I do.
God, I wish I could just stop thinking the way I do.
But I can't.
These things are engrained.
The collarbones,
The ribs,
The hipbones.
The things I crave.
All I can think is
"Thin".
All I can tell myself is
"Thin".
But I am not thin.
When I look in the mirror,
I am disgusted.
I pinch at my skin,
And I beat it as punishment,
For being
Imperfect.
And I know that
Flaws are natural,
And nothing about this
Disorder
Is natural.
But that stopped making a difference
A long,
Long,
Time ago.
Natural,
Healthy,
Okay,
Normal,
Average,
Not dying.
None of that matters.
Skinny stopped being
Enough.
Being bones
Is all I ache for.
And I am nowhere near
Bones.
I am nowhere near
Skinny.
I am nowhere near
Thin.
But it's all I want.
And it's what I
Destroy
My body for.
I'm broken,
And nobody can fix me.
I have been like this for years.
God, I wish I didn't have to be
Fat.
If I weren't
Fat,
I wouldn't let my body ache,
And Decay
For my version of
"Perfection."
If I weren't
Fat,
I wouldn't **** myself
Every day.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
Your voice floods my ears
At 6:45 A.M.,
"Patient Number Four, it's time
to do your vitals."

I'm standing in the doorframe
of my hospital cubicle--
right hand in yours, the nurse's,
left hand in the shredder--
or is that the wire frame that's holding
me up like I'm a head on a stake?

"Have you eaten, how long has it been now?"
I try to tell you the truth, but my mouth feels miles away, riding on the train
that you people call my throat.
And my throat has brought me here, to your pristine prison cell because
I betrayed it too many times.

"I need to get your vitals, will you come with me?"
And how do I know, how do I really know
that you are not trying to ****** me
with gleaming round numbers
and records of compliance, cooperation.
How do I know that you are not trying to re-name me in this hospital's file-cabinet language?

"I need you to follow me to the lab."
Why are you trying to take me away
from myself?--
The self I spent so many years
constructing from the bits and pieces
of black earth I dug up eagerly, fearlessly.

I cannot move to your white room--
the other flavor of white reserved
for nurses, not the oatmeal in my cubicle.
I cannot leave this arm with its chewed-up edges or this crime-scene throat
with its flapping lid.

"Please give me your arm and make a fist."
I already told you, or tried to,
I cannot give myself to you.
I have given myself away too many times
under too many names.
And I am tired, so tired,
of chasing myself back to Me.

So you drain me right there in the hallway
and seal me back up
without a kiss--
So I kiss myself on the thick vein you chose and whisper
my real name to myself
Because I am terrified, so terrified
of forgetting it.
Maria Monte Jul 2017
When have I started seeing myself as insignificant?

Was it in 7th grade when I started to notice
How the world paraded a perfect image of
What a body should be?

Magazines, bulletins, billboards, media: images
Of how women should have the deep oceans in their eyes
or they'd be worth less than a pebble.
Of how their ******* should resemble the precious pearls of God
or they're not worth a single glance.
Of how their lips and skins have to be free from scratches, dents, and scars
as if they were Christmas poultry.

When have little girls started avoiding supper and saving cents for plastic surgery?

Was it in 9th Grade during health class
When Mr. Smith babbled about how thin
Was the only desirable body type and
If you were any other you're unwanted?

Text books and ideals screaming
About thigh gaps with curvy bottoms,
Delicate fingers and thin arms
And how little girls shouldn't have a visible stomach.

Did they hear about little Mary's sobs in the night
Because no matter how much she pressed down
On her tiny uvula, her food wouldn't magically disappear?

When have mothers started caring more about their belly pouch than how their babies are crying every 6 seconds?

Was it in college when I had to attend a seminar
About how the perfect body has zero fat composition and if you did, you're probably lazy and incompetent.
Mothers and fathers whispering to each other
About how my mother wasn't skinny enough
And how her face wasn't caked with make up

Little do they know, my mother worked 24/7,
As a manager and a single mother of 4,.
She barely had time for looks..

Now here I stand in front of what I've feared for years since I was 13..
And I see.. I'm not so bad after all.

I've started loving the way my messy black hair barely reaches the plains of my shoulders,
I've started loving the humanity in my charcoal black eyes despite how empty they'd seem,
I've started loving the splashes of pink and red on my plump body as if they were constellations.

I've realized that my sarcasm and silly personality is not measured by the numbers,
That my motherly nature doesn't have anything to do with how I'm not curvy enough,
That people care about the ways my eyes shine more than they ever will about how my gut is showing.

More importantly.. I've started loving people more now that I do love myself.
Izzy Jul 2017
That girl
That
Hazel eyed
Brown haired
Big hearted
Small statured
Young lady
Screams
Screams so loud that not even the wrappers of half eaten snicker bars of her room can hear the shrieking of
terror
Sadness
Hopelessness
The shrieking of that girl
That
Fat assed
Gluttonous  
Out of order
Confused
Young lady
Devours
Devours only to shove her hand down her throat in attempt to get rid of that monster that eats at her every living moment
That girl
That
Calorie counting
Food obsessed
Good for nothing
Bulimic
Young lady
Screams screams of silence
For every
Cut
Bruise
Scratch
Burn
Of this relentless hell.
-I.I
This isn't a new poem- I wrote this a while ago but at the moment I don't have new poetry.

Hope you enjoy!
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
Don’t ask me how I feel about food
because you’ll find yourself lost in stories
that glorify pathological eating patterns.
Yes, I am a loud-mouthed *******.
Yes, I will tell you
about the time all I ate on a Wednesday
was a single mustard packet
and you better believe I held the near-empty plastic sleeve
under my desk
ripped it open
and brought the splayed-out wrapper to my lips.

How about the Saturday night my roommate left
for her boyfriend’s house.
I waited for the sound of her car
pulling out of the driveway
then spent the next two hours
eating bowl after bowl of frosted cereal
and throwing them up one after another
until I couldn’t feel my jaw.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
Breath in the madhouse
freezes in air like ice.
The drip drip drip
of life
turns inward like a hooked nose.
It is time for the melting,
it is time to have your own breath caught
and put away neatly like mugs in a cabinet,
away from the lips,
away from the throat
with its noble muscles.
It is time to be saved
from your own spent mouth
that bleeds ***** and lies, lies, lies.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
I stare down my straw.
It’s floating in a cold beige soup
that I must drink
like some perverse mother’s milk.
Two table wardens pretend not to stare.
But they do stare
in quick flashes and sideways glares--
they’re supposed to be my mothers
teaching me how to get fat again.
The clock ticks forward
its hands make puncture wounds in my eyes
that mimic mouths.
I shift in my chair and my thighs slide
in my own anxious mess.
One warden opens her mouth to speak
but a cough comes out instead.
I do not take a sip
and the clock yawns.
I do not take a sip
and the clock gives up its patient dance and
the warden who coughed pours the contents of my glass
down the drain.
I ask if she could pour me out too--
*****-by *****.
She rolls her eyes at the spread of my thighs
that beg to be fed--
I do not drink.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
Women like me
tear their hair out
over things like this--
calories in peanut butter
the bit that’s left on the spreading knife
after your sandwich is stacked and sliced in four neat triangles
(you already dipped the corners in bleach)
Blood in your toilet bowl
from vomiting too passionately
your esophagus is eating itself up
(you don’t go to the doctor, you don’t even tell your mother)
A clogged kitchen sink
the disposal blades wound tightly
with the spaghetti you poured out like tight little worms
(you blame your roommates for the mess)
And the quiet ache of every muscle
that refuses to relax
when all you want to do is sleep.
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