“What’s the harm?” they whisper,
“What’s the problem
in being everyone’s fantasy?”
“In having all of your friends
find your flesh attractive?”
“Having the pretty privilege
morph into the entitlement of others?”

As they claim my skin
and caress my bones.
Peeling pieces of my body
and making themselves at home.

Consent is implied
within the lines
of whatever bond we hold.
Friends, family, lovers.
What’s the harm in giving them
what they want,
what they demand they need.
In watching them eat you up
With a never ending greed.

“But you’re my fantasy”
as if I’m obligated
to the impressions of me
you’ve shoved down my throat.
Until I’m choking and sobbing
pleading you to relinquish your hold.

Your eyes leave imprints and bruises
as you salivate over a body
I don’t even see.
It was only 3rd grade.
Again, when merely rending
the damaged goods of a teen.
By the time I was an adult
it was the only way I was seen.

But age matters not,
when you were never perceived
as a human being,
simply a desire
for others to devour.

“What’s the harm in being a *** dream?”
They scream “we’re all friends here”
as they render my sobriety to shreds
Only to tell me that it’s all in my head.

Society taught me to turn a blind eye,
“what’s the harm?” It said with a sigh.
They drugged me with ignorance,
refuting my plea.

A passing inconvenience for you
Born of my own naïveté,
is a trauma memory
that I can never undo.

There isn’t a piece of me
you’ve not seen,
nothing left of myself
to discover.
You’ve rendered my own exploration
into nothing more than a detour.

You’ve taken every first
I could have claimed
and thought to beat a dog
was the equivalent of making it tame. 
So now I’m sobbing into a void
wondering why I was ever
a thing that you could destroy?

Attributes of the walking stick
hung around like charity shop clothing -
bagged and ready to go

It was a switch that had truely altered time again
(\ - this is not poetry it is gospel.)and a shower which managed to scrub off a few inches of the ***** dirt

a sectre of a cultural conversation
that stands for nothing
whether i'm ***** again ot not.

The chip shop gave me free water, and i just considered myself lucky at the time
but its starting to make me more suspicious now

and not in the way that i've seen my whole teenage and further years as a massive xenephobia crime made to seem more convincing through dehydration

An abstract painting
Up to interpret.
Is it just me,
Or the mirror has a disfigurement?
Did the flower abruptly bloom,
Or was it something swollen in me,
That grew while I was sleeping?
Stunningly consuming the insides within.
Or does it pain
Because I'm empty?

Lovely and as useless
As a seven year old's drawing.
As haunting of a sight
Like a storm cloud nearby,
The drug of a cinephile.
Even my chest hurts when someone hugs
So even my ribs are in agony.
Or does it pain
Because I'm empty?

my beautiful body is killing me,
it longs to seek no rest.
even without weighing myself
every hour is a moral test.
do i even want to be here?
could i be here and just be me?
but every minute is an endless sea
reminding me that i'm never free.
most days i feel like i was never meant to be
because my beautiful body is killing me.

my beautiful body is killing me,
it keeps me as cold as ice.
i no longer feel my fingers from the moment i arise.
and even when i want to eat,
looking at a plate of food usually suffices'.
and i don't want to be this way anymore,
i don't want to be alone.
i don't want to wonder for the rest of my life wondering what its like to have a home...
but no one holds me close enough anyways,
so alone is usually the best way to go.
when i fade away from everything i have ever known,
my beautiful body reassures me its okay -
that its probably better off to die this way.
that i was a failure when i was around them every day.
that i couldn't ever keep up with any game life ever tried to bestow to my name.
and its just better this way.
its just better this way.

my beautiful body calls so much attention,
but never any real recognition.
no true understanding of how strong a mission
it afflicted me with for total abolition.
to leave my mother with all of my favorite sweaters,
in an empty room with empty boxes,
packing away her daughters necklaces and lockets
and praying that it never ended up this way.

that her daughter could just come back one day.
that she had never become a spiritual stray.
that i had never become an apparition with no face, or no name.

my beautiful body is not beautiful,
it ravages me whole. every day that could of been happy
that anorexia stole. i can't help but face the reality that
i'm no longer on parole
i'm back in it again. and i don't want to be.
so don't call me beautiful please.
you just have no idea so you really can't see
how much of a waste of life i grew up to be.

Please forgive me
I don't know what's happening
It's too loud in my head,
I can't see beyond this feeling
Please forgive me,
I'm trying to find aid
Sometimes it works well,
It's worth what I've paid
But sometimes it just fails
Nothing I try works
I'm yelling like a monster
I've never felt this berserk
Please forgive me
I realize what I've done,
Only after the fog passes
After the fears have won.
Please forgive me,
I hope there is medication
Meditation's an option, I hear,
God, I need a vacation
From all of this noise,
My head feels so tight
I can't hear my voice,
Or my thoughts, or what feels right!
Please forgive me,
This is beyond my control
I didn't ask for any of this,
I just want to feel whole
Please forgive me
I wish you could relate
I wouldn't wish this upon you
I dare to wish for a better fate
Please forgive me,
This isn't an excuse
I will gladly run away,
I will gladly be a recluse.
Please forgive me,
I'd change my brain if I could
Why was I made this way?
Why can't I work like I should?

Running towards your own death,
voluntarily.

It’s waking up with an immediate anxiety attack
over having to eat to survive.

Every bite denied is a victory over desire
and a demonstration of
self-control
in the most
out-of-control way.