You, the therapist,
tell me to imagine my uncontrollable urges,
shame, and despair
as reptilian demons lurking
below the ship that I sail across
an unknown sea with no land in sight.

I tell you that the demons are me,
many-headed and armed with unlit torches
that search for fire underneath my skin,
inside my veins.

I dig my nails into my chest,
trying to claw out the shame that sits on my heart
like a cinderblock.

There is no ship, there is no sea,
there are no heavy planks below my feet
to separate the humanness from the monstrosity
that twists my insides into red-hot twine
and bruises my skin so easily,
like it was meant to be.

You, the therapist,
cling to your metaphor with an iron grip.
I, the monster,
try to claw out of my own skin,
but I do not have a map,
and I cannot imagine your sea that leads
to the promised land
because my eyes are turned inward,
searching for blood to tame the shame
that burns in me.

Have you ever seen your breakup
At the bottom
Of a toilet bowl

Last night i treated myself
To a three-course meal
Of mustard, spit, and toilet water splashback

Have you ever reached into the back
Of your throat with spider fingers
Digging for the right language
To communicate your pain
Spoiler alert: you won’t find it down there

But you will find:
Thick mucus
Strings of blood
Nail polish chips
And stripped knuckle-skin

And every time you pummel your four longest fingers
Back-and-forth against the back of your gag reflex
You’ll be pushing yourself deeper
Into the grave that nobody knew you were digging

I spent my days crying, praying
That you would stop kneeling to the toilet
Sacrificing for a thinner body
You would sell your soul to see your ribs
And I would sell mine, to see you yourself again

What happened to the days when your favorite food was mac 'n' cheese
When you asked for seconds and didn't weigh your kale, adding every gram to your imaginary rolls?
What happened to your smile, the childish laughter in your eyes
I'm waiting for you to come running around the corner
Giggling

Please, forget for a moment your scales
Your toilet worship, your laxatives and long walks
Let's play like we used to
Let's be three years old and play in the garden
I want to see you one more time
Before it's too late.

The number on the scale
Becomes very real.
When food becomes kilojoules
And
Cravings become nil.

The number on the scale
Shouldn't be like a rusty nail.
Causing a wound
that never seems to heal,
that spreads till you're ill.

The number on the scale
is now fear.
For somehow worth is
Equals to
The number on the scale.

The number on the scale
Haunts till
The number on the scale
Decreases to
The (smaller) Number on the scale.

cake-235 calories

You can have a bite.  
Come on treat yourself.  
Indulge.  
For only the price of:
An hour of sit ups,
two hours of guilt,
A day of crying over the bathroom scale,
A week of fasting.  

French fries-250 calories

Come on take a bite.
Reward yourself.  
Indulge.  
You haven't eaten anything but your own fingernails in days.  

Chocolate milk-120 calories

Take a sip.
Indulge,
for only the cost of the rest of your life spent worshiping
the feeling of an empty stomach.  
The feeling of being cold in a warm room.
The feeling of your bones poking through your skin like white flags.  

Waffles-190 calories

Just one bite won't hurt.  
Indulge
And another and another
soon it's a binge.
Now purge.  
Purge your body of the evil of calories.
Purge your guilt into the toilet.  
Wipe your tears and brush your teeth.
It's worth it to treat yourself,right?