Someone knocked on my door the other day
A woman I didn’t recognize
Long limps, tiny frame
Her eyes pierced right through me and it hurt
Her fingers were ice-cold when she touched me
Pushing me away to enter the room
She examined the kitchen, the sink, the fridge
And I could only wonder what she was looking for
For a second I thought that she might be hungry
But her lips were pressed so tightly together
That I forgot about it immediately
When she looked into the mirror she saw me standing right behind her
And in a state of both frustration and excitement
I kicked against the glass with my foot
And it was not the glass,
But the woman,
That broke.

Don't listen to the pressure,
Who even said that skinny is better?
Those magazines and tv shows?
Being hateful is money and money is what they want.
So they will hate every minute of the day to make sure that their pay isn't going away.

Propaganda that visible bones is better,
Lies that skipping a meal is alright,
And teaching little girls that with their weight
They will always have to fight.

This is not how we were created to be,
We are all beautiful internally.
Don't listen to the pressure,
Skinny really isn't better.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I couldn't understand this message.
This strange jumble invented by my relative.
Keep what up?
What was I doing?

Eating.
I was chomping on a dessert that my aunt had prepared tenderly.
I was at peace with the world
but my uncle's comment left me distraught.

End up like my mother?
That's all I've ever wanted.
My beautiful, kind, selfless, assertive mother.
She was clever as a fox and delicate and a pink pedal.
End up generous and strong?
Yes please!

Still,
This man watching me eat,
Says it as if it is something to avoid.
There wasn't a correlation that could be made in my mind.

Years later,
I revisited the scene,
Only to have my heart weep for that small girl.
That tiny, confused child quietly nibbling on her cake.

Her mother also eating the treat,
But a larger helping for a larger woman.
She had always been large,
But in my mind that meant more room
For love and passion and aspiration.

"Keep that up and you'll end up like your mother."

I did grow over time,
As most children do.
My pounds piled on
And my skin stretched to make room for the garden growing inside of me.
My body grew larger.
But so did my honesty, my beauty and love for the world.

Maybe I did keep up eating cake,
And maybe I did grow in size,
But to say that 'I'm just like my mother',
Is the best complement I could receive.

I hate the way you hurt my throat, don't leave me.
I hate the way you scar my hands, don't leave me.
I hate the way you make me keep secrets, don't leave me.
I hate when you don't let me go out, don't leave me.
I hate that I can't ever get away from you, don't leave me.

Please, just don't ever leave me.

When did the numbers become so important?
Why do these inanimate things begin to have so much power?
Constantly scrutinized, and measured by them.
Though they don't show the depth of our character
Or the things that make our hearts glow.
We reach for the right one never knowing what actually is enough.
Constantly measuring, but never enough.
When does it end?

"You're so thin, what's your secret?"
It isn't cutting out carbs,
My secret isn't a diet in a magazine,
My secret is hidden under baggy sweaters,
My secret is the scale hidden under clothes in my closet,
My secret is exercising until I pass out,
My secret comes from feeling fat every second even when I'm being begged to gain weight by doctors,
My secret is placing my entire self worth on a number and the belief that others judge me by the same numbers,
My secret is a voice that is always yelling at me, telling me I take up too much space and need to be sick to be acceptable,
My secret is looking in the mirror at all the weight I think I've gained since the last time I looked, an hour before,
My secret is the desire to slice my fat right off,
My secret is the hidden food in my dresser that I told my mom I was taking for lunch,
My secret is hidden at the bottom of toilet bowls,
It's an empty laxative package,
It's fainting every time I stand up too fast,
It's numbers. It's all numbers. Calories. Pounds. Kilograms. Clothing sizes. Calories. Inches. BMI. Calories. It's counting, recounting, then deciding I don't desire it anyway.
It's striving for the lowest number, to have the lowest number, to be the lowest number,
My secret is comparing myself to everyone I see and always thinking I'm worse,
My secret is turned down coffee dates, parties, and sleepovers because there will be food there,
My secret is the word "fat" carved into my inner thigh with a blade from a pencil sharpener,
My secret hides behind every "no thanks I'm allergic" "I'm vegan" "I can't have gluten" and "I already ate",
It's being told curves are beautiful and nobody wants to date a skeleton but still not being able to believe it,
My secret is paranoia that everyone is trying to make me fat,
My secret is having nightmares of eating an almond then waking up with a racing heart and panicking,
You want to know my secret?
My secret is in the tenth grade my bmi was lower than my age,
My secret was tears shed in hospital beds,
My secret is being begged by everyone I love to just have a bite,
My secret is being afraid of eating fruits or drinking water because I think it'll make me fat,
My secret is getting on scales then off of them then on them then back off and still not trusting it,
My secret is a constant demand to be thinner with no point that will ever be enough,
My secret is that the only curves I want are the curves my ribs would make poking through my skin,
My secret is squeezing my fat until my nails pierce my skin,
My secret is feeling like I'm being suffocated by my own body,
My secret is dizzy days and cold skin,
My secret is that even through years of therapy I can't get the same amount of satisfaction from any person or accomplishment as I can from losing weight,
My secret comes from every hit from my mom, from every nasty word spoken by the girls who thought I wasn't good enough, from every guy's touch I didn't ask for,
I didn't get thin due to having willpower,
I got thin from becoming powerless
to a mirror that will never tell me I'm good enough until I'm dead.

The pretty girl with the wide smile,
that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
The happy girl with the loud laugh,
that doesn't want to socialize.

The quite girl with the long sleeves,
is starting to feel like a fraud.
The perfect girl with the straight hair,
is getting tired of the façade.

The pretty girl has a fake smile,
and is filling her body with cuts.
While, the perfect girl with the straight hair,
is puking out her guts.

The happy girl with the pretend laugh,
spends her nights crying to the stars.
While, the quiet girl with the long sleeves,
has a body full of bruises and scars.

So, not everything is as it seems.
Because, while everything seems fine,
these girls are full of silent screams.

Is it really possible for me,
to be what they want to see?
Though I've never done it before its there, the urge
it sit still as stone until violently it screams, "just purge".
The smell off food cooking is like poison yet i eat
and eat
and eat
until all I've done for an hour and a half is eat.
my skin quivers and crawls,
no escape from these four walls.
This house is like a prison cell,
all you can hear is the ringing of a bell,
though logically you no its silent,
but silence is most definitely violent.
And so the struggle begins again
to avoid that horrid gain.