I wish I knew just how to confess
the sickness happening in my head,
but I have no clue how to start
because I honestly have no idea
how this whole mess began.

Each bite I take is precious,
a tasty present I allow myself
only once I've reached a state
of pure unavoidable hunger.
And each bite is torture,
for I know each one will come back
to haunt me, taunt me.

I walk into the bathroom,
look down at the toilet,
brush my hair off to the side,
and begin my clandestine routine.
I despise myself for this practice,
but it is nothing compared to
the repugnance I feel when
looking at myself in a mirror.
The few minutes of disgust
are worthless in relation to
the elation I feel when I see
those calories expelled from my body,
unable to be absorbed into my system,
added onto me as even more fat.

It's an up and down mind battle.
I hate myself for each action I take,
but am unable to help it. I try not to
eat, but sometimes I just get so
**** hungry I cave to my cravings,
regretting each torturous morsel
as it passes between my lips.
A trip to the bathroom, then,
and it'll all be better soon I guess.
But I'm hungry again much too soon
and the terrible circle begins anew.

I don't know how to ask for help,
am far too ashamed to admit
these disgustingly illicit deeds.
And for now I get to see
the numbers on the scale decrease.
Getting help would halt
the progress I've worked so hard for.

It's our little secret.
You'll have to keep it
Feel the pain in your gut
Close your heart and keep it shut.
Let no other person in
And let the punishment begin.
Every wrong thing that you make
Will also be my mistake

I'm beginning to see.
What people think of me,
I swear it's not by choice,
But ana has this voice.
She starves me of my youth,
And that's the only truth.
This hunger grows in me like cancer
I expected her to have the answers
And she did
But she haven't made me fit

I've been cracking my knuckles since I was six,
but back then my bones were still practically cartilage.

My mother could only make me stop during dinner.
Her brass voice echoed through the house,
like the trumpets in a marching band on the Fourth of July.
(Although not as patriotic.)

My mother didn't know about all the times I cracked
my knuckles when I was by myself.

Sweet sixteen and the joints between my fingers still
crunched secretly under my skin and between
what was now developed into hard white bone.

I've only broken one bone in my entire life.

It was my nose during my homecoming soccer game,
senior year, under the lights and across the street
from the stone-cold brick building that housed
my Catholic education.

Soccer ***** have hit my stomach and my chest countless times,
leaving hexagonal imprints in scratchy blotches of red
over an empty envelope of acid and oxygen.

This time it hit me and I fell to the cold and frozen dirt,
my jersey conforming to the brown-green of roughened grass
and the blood from my nose providing contrast
and complement all at once.

Someone picked me up and I became conscious and self-conscious
that someone’s hands could touch my skin and
that someone’s hands could feel my body.

My hands hung off the sides of the stretcher I didn't need
(I thought it was crazy, all this fuss over a broken nose)
and they swung as I was carried, bringing blood
to my knuckles so that they could swell and expand.

My mother tripped over her questions
when she asked if I could
breathe or eat or speak or if my choking was cause for concern.

“B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made rice and b-beans.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
I m-m-made your f-f-f-f-favorite.”

You tied me in a robe and stuck a tube down my throat.
B-b-baby don’t d-d-die,
it’s your f-f-favorite.

Girl,you're pretty
Now stop starving
just to be skinny

Girl, you're beautiful
Nothing can get down
Now eat that meal till your tummy's full

Girl, your life is precious
Don't risk it like this.
Walk with your head held high
And look at the positive things

Girl, I know it's hard
Near relapses, family
and your inner war
Learn to stay strong
Ignore their taunts.

Girl, remember you're beautiful
Someday someone's going to love you
and fade all of your blues.

Girl, you're you
With your talents
and dimensions
Those models on cover pages will never be you

that girl in the conor
80 lbs of weight
she's beautifully broken
skinny almost dead

that girl in the front
200 lbs of weight
she's happy and giggly
but fat and almost dead

we have me in the middle
100 lbs of weight
i'm neither happyor beautifull
i'm fat, living but not at all alive

I was always called a pig
I was always seen so fat
I was always feeling ugly
I was this and I was that

I was always called chubby
I was always seen strange
I was always throwing up
To hope a sudden change

I was always called a loser
I was always so depressed
I was always starving bad
My thoughts so obsessed

I was always called a baby
I was always called a fake
I was an attention seeker
Family help was a mistake

I was always called skinny
I was always seen so thin
I was called beautiful after
Did I lose?. Or did I win?.

Can you see past the blue of her eyes?
Can you see the pain?
Can you see how her cheeks are swollen and her eyes are empty?
Can you hear the tears choked back in her voice?
Can you see what she does to herself in the night when she's screaming at the bugs under her skin?
Can you remember the horrid things that she's reminded of by the ghosts in the dark?
She's told you once before.
She's shown you that side.
She's bore her soul to you.
You were only distracted by the blue in her eyes.