I hate that I am eating.
I hate every bite, every swallow.
I hate every taste, every wrapper.
I hate the bile that raises in the back of my throat every time
I try to consume food.
I am so so very sick of it all.
So sick of needing to be high to even want to eat.
So sick of the feeling of being full
And I hate my need to be rid of it.
Of trying to force it to stay down
But secretly wishing that my ***** will drown me.
I hate myself when I do *****.
But I hate myself so much more when I don’t.
But they say I’m pretty
But they say I’m better
So why is it so hard
When every swallow is burning me alive
And every ***** makes me a liar.
And every skipped meal makes me a coward.
I can't remember the last time you smiled
I can't remember the last time you asked me how I felt
I can't remember the last time you said "I love you"
I can't remember the last time you understood
I can't remember the last time we agreed
I can't remember the last time we laughed together; truly laughed
I can't remember the last time we sat down and talked
I can't remember the last time I was good enough
All I remember is your hatred
All I remember is your scorn
All I remember is your sharp, cutting words
All I remember is that unending disappointment
All I remember is my pleas being ignored
All I remember is you telling me I'm worthless
And I remember
the day I took those pills because of you
Hollow, floating just on the surface,
Follow the motes of dawn 'till they drown.
Plastic and pleasant: all that the earth is,
Spastic and present: rising, rising to fall back down.
Do not look.
If you find something that is beautiful,
You’ll never be able to see it again.
Do not look.
Do you fear like I do? That the rolling clouds
And layered sunset will remind you
Of simpler days? This is why
I cannot look.
I have never felt right,
writing this poem.
They keep saying
that I'm "strong".
I don't feel strong.
like ripping off my skin
wouldn't be enough
that breaking my hands
I feel lost.
The lion has left me.
I can't swallow this pain
spiraling down the shower drain
the lip stick stain,
is the color of a constant migraine
staring at me, I might turn insane
Whenever I saw you with him in disdain
I cannot not maintain
this derailing emotional train
that is called my brain
Though it matters not what lane
still tugging at our almost broken chain
in effort to retain,
whatever is left to remain.
You are no longer my Plain Jane.
I can't for life understand why men that treat their partners with abuse physically or
mentally, or even
They know nothing of
how to treat a lady, with
the respect they are not objects they're human
with a feeling, treat
a woman as did my wife
she gave so much love In our time
never for a moment did I think I was better than her because I wasn't, we
equal In all we did, that's
what true love Is, but to beat and abuse women disgust me, time It was stopped
Disgust me the way some men abuse there women why they human beings with feeling you treat them with the respect they deserve and they gave ther undying love
I hate the word "perfect".
Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.
They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.
Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.
Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.
I hate the word "perfect".
I'm tired of people saying that perfection is something to glorify and strive for. Some people are literally broken apart by the expectations of perfection.
Why do Lovers always love
at the set of Sun?
Like why can't they Love at
the tick of a clock or
the flushing of toilets?
A clock ticks far more often
In One Day
and a toilet is home to a whole
Host of Colors
I will Love you at every flush
of the hand past nine, and
I will Love you at every slip
of the bowel past time.
Wholly heck, I'm hella romantic
Just a ramble