spinach has blown
down my neck
and drifted gently
under my ribs

(i'm the salad fork carefully
rolling coffee beans
in drippy melted
warm dark chocolate)

i'm hungry but
not in the way where
my stomach growls
in the way where
i want to cry
but i've got to keep my
$20 teeth fresh and
minty at all times

the mirror
is broken

cracked in so many places
i'm more jagged lines than person
a mosaic of pieces that don't match
and parts i don't like

the truth is i
am flawed
and i will always
be flawed

and i may never
stop looking in
a broken mirror
wishing to smash
my body on its
sharpest edges

but i'm slipping
into a comatose
state of control
and loathing

(the more dead i get
the more alive i look)

when will i snap
out of this
when will i snap
out of this

(I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS
I DON'T WANT TO
SNAP OUT OF THIS)

stir the greens
rip the chicken
orange stings
the minty sores

chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew
chew chew chew

swallow

take a bite
leave a bite
too much
too little
still hungry

always hungry

but it will all feel better
another ten pounds down

To eat or not to eat, that is the question.
A doughnut, ******, airy I’ll consume--
adjust my diet later to make room--
or falsely reject pastries’ sweet delight
while bingeing pasta deep into the night?
Doughnut, thou art satisfying, sweetly
filling morsel, savored now discreetly—
perhaps a little midday’s sugar craving
is better solaced, hunger I’ll be staving
off, resisting better night time craves.
‘Tis better, easier to have the faves;
by portions small on calories I’ll save,
and skip on other dishes that don’t taste
as sweet and crispy, but go straight to waist.

The pipes froze as the toilet overflowed
with pangs of guilt and bile bitten clothes.
She tried to dispose of what she ate
from breakfast to lunch to her snacks after eight.
From dieting to shame, infatuation came,
from the overwhelming pain of being herself.
Scared to ask for help, she took matters to her hands.
One to hold her hair, the other to her thyroid gland.

© Matthew Harlovic

Her body was fragile, her body was thin
Little did we know; she threw up in the bin.
It was all in her mind “pretty girls don’t eat”
And models themselves are always petite.
But there’s always a secret, a secret behind
The reason why these girls declined
The food they were offered and the drinks they were poured
And the high calories dishes were always ignored.
Dieting and pills became the norm
And the media portrayed it as a new art form.
But this “new art form” was a dangerous entity
And no one knew its true severity
Of this illness that gets in your head
And the sinister voices that want you dead.
But you listen to them as they’re your only friend,
The ones that will be there to the very last end.