She filed her dreams in alphabetical order,
Wiping the dust from her minimalist future.
She boxed them up and piled them high,
Shrinking them to match her thighs
And the looking glass began to lie each night
Telling her the weight of her dreams
Was too heavy to fight.

Happiness: The ultimate goal, right?
We all want to be happy
We all want to feel fulfilled.

We see pictures of smiling, skinny bodies
and we know what happiness looks like.
It looks like thin faces
frail arms
tiny legs
concave stomachs

The first step to being happy is
looking
the part.

In the dark I dine alone with only my demons to keep me safe. Safe, safety from what? From whom? From you? I like to pretend you’re dead, a slashed throat, a necklace of rope. I know it’s a sin to think this way but what’s life without a splash of red?
In the dark I cry alone with only my demons to keep me warm. Warm, warmth a sensation my body becomes numb to around you. Some times I wonder, wonder what keeps you so cold? Whom keeps you cold? Is it me… my love?
In the dark I dine alone with only my demons to save me. Saving me from what? From whom? From you? I like to imagine I’m dining on your flesh , your blood in my goblet and dripping down my walls. I know it’s a sin to imagine such a thing but life is art and I simply chose a different medium.
In the dark I sing alone with only my demons to keep me on track. On track, what track? Which way? It’s coming, closer, closer, closer I can hear it now screeching in my ear waiting for the impact I close my eyes.
And silence.
Sometimes I like to imagine you could had saved me but that’s not how life, how love works. Or used to work, how would I know what it is like now?

Hold me close dear whilst I cry. Hold me close my love whilst I die. Hold me and watch, watch me fade into nothing, a flower wilting and soul not worth saving. I’ve watched the inevitable, leaving, giving up. On me, on you, on us. Hold me as I bleed, it dripping down my arm. Hold me darling as I choke on your sweet hatred.
When you hold me close I wonder, wonder what how I’ve done this to you. I’m not good enough for you, I’ll turn you into me, emotionless, hateful and spiteful. I never wanted this for you so I’ll cry, I’ll die I’ll say good bye.
Will you hold me dear when I’m dead in your arms. My cold body pressed against your  warm body, lifeless. Will you cry over me? Dead in your arms. I guess you wouldn’t. You see, my dear, I told you I wasn’t worth it. I told you what a waste I was, I am. A waste is what I am.
Eventually, one day, we will be old and we will die. Together I hope, life has never been on my side though. When you die, when you leave me, when you move on without me I will cry, I will die, I will mourn the love I wish I still had.
I don’t know, I don’t know when, I don’t know how but here is my suicide note.

Will you, will you love me still? When I’m no longer young and my hair will start to fade. Will you, will you my dear continue to love me through thick and thin? When I’m crying over you.
Come sit by me darling and we’ll wish away the pain; still it’ll come creeping, creeping. Soon you’ll no longer recognise me my love. Before your eyes I’ll turn into your worst nightmare. Fading, fading away.
Will you sing to me sweetheart? Sing me to sleep drifting, drifting off to a better land. Didn’t you hear? I’m lost. Lost in your eyes. Lost in your touch. Lost in your voice. It’s too late for me please save, save yourself.
Come wrap me up in black silk and I’ll pretend, pretend I’m dead. With pain comes death and with death comes madness, maddening over you. I fear, my dear, I’m losing it. Have you, have you seen my soul?
Will you hold me together darling? When my bones stick out. Will you still love me? When I become what you hate, hatred burning through your heart. Whilst I watch. Watching and crying over you.
Now I no longer cry, cry over you. For, my lover, there’s no point anymore. You’re writing love letters to the dead.

Black ribbon round my arms, round my waist. Tying me together, making lose ends meet. Black ribbon round my legs, round my eyes. Preventing me from the inevitable. Black ribbon round my neck, round my neck. Breaking my bones, breaking me.
Black satin hiding me, hiding you from what we want to see. Black satin protecting me, preventing you but do you really see? Black satin ripping, ripping in half, tearing, crying, trying to become whole again.
Black smudges, down my face, across my fingers. This is reality. Black smudges hide the red, hide the pain, hide the dark. Black smudges from leftover paint, painting a personality.
Black clothes mourning, mourning the deceased. A sea of black, a splash of white. A glimpse of hope. Mothers tell their monsters hope is all you need but who will see a flicker in the dark. A glimpse of hope.
There’s no hope for me but pure ironic Joy.

~ a.k

I starved to look pretty
I purged to feel better
I cut to feel less
I smoked to feel more

Now I have no energy

And now

I just feel nothing.

I was sixteen years old when I effectively vomited for the first time. As my mother’s pasta and the words of a boy I thought loved me flooded my esophagus I grasped the cold sides of the toilet seat with sweaty palms and bitten down fingernails. I looked into the mirror as if my reflection had finally transformed into a wax figure I had been burning at for years and I knew it would never go back to its original form. I’d seen that look before, in girls wiping their lips in high school bathrooms, girls who wore baggy clothes and flinched when boys playfully poked at their stomachs, girls who put rocks in their pockets before being weighed at doctors’ appointments and covered up bruises over fragile bones with whatever makeup they could find in their mother’s drawer. I sit in health class as the teacher speaks of the dangers of eating disorders from a third person point of view and it seems as if the only sound anyone is hearing is the growling coming from my empty stomach. I stand up from a lunch table in the cafeteria and freeze at the words of a girl telling me I’ve gotten as skinny as my three month prematurely born best friend. I walk through the front door and immediately remove every piece of clothing that might weigh even an ounce and I step onto the scale with hopes of seeing my importance rise as the numbers fall but no one ever told me that I am worth so much more than 96 pounds.

I am nineteen years old and I am no longer drowned in a sea of panic when my father asks me what I've had to eat today. When my boyfriend glides his hands under my shirt and over the top of my waistline my head is not consumed by the thought that my stomach is not flat enough for his liking. I do not sit in class and think about the flesh of my thighs bulging from the holes in my jeans that a boy once told me looked like tumors under my skin.
Okay, there are days when the only one who knows I am my own worst enemy is the mirror and okay, I still politely insist that the lights be turned off before I let him touch me with satin fingertips and okay, I still have a way of instantaneously counting calories in my head the same way I counted on myself to stop years ago but
I only weighed myself once today.

I read a vogue magazine once

I wanted to be more mature
I wanted to be a child again

I was bored of how I looked

I was called 'fat' once

I needed more control over myself
I needed someone to look after me

I wanted to deny myself a basic human need

I was in so much pain that I needed more

I lost weight and I couldn't stop
I found something I was good at

I ran out of ways to destroy myself