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CIN Apr 19
Pained intake of breath
Hot air against my cheeks
You’re wrapping white cloth over my arms
I’m watching red seep in like ink bleeds

Faintly, behind a splotch of black
I see your eyes grow wet
And though I am barely holding on
I can feel the tremble in your fingers
And an echo of a voice
Calling my name

You’re desperately trying to push paper into the wound
And I’m feeling myself bleed out despite your efforts
You take me to a doctor but still I leak
Transfuse your own red into me
But it just leaves through my eyes and makes me feel weak

“What have you done to yourself?!” you cry
And I sigh through a fit of tears
You’re trying to take the pain out of me
And i'm disappointing you with every breath I take

Just like you cannot will another moon into existence
You cannot love someone out of an illness
I'm sorry I can't get better for you, it just wasn't meant to be.
RisingUp Apr 4
In a flash,
the thoughts come back -
"you're fat".

Why?

This illogical phrase used to put me in a haze, made me a slave, to its demands I'd cave.

Broken.

My stomach feels bigger, so do my legs, does my face look fatter? Maybe it's what you ate. You need to fix it, or I will berate.

Watch it.

Weight gain not acceptable, definitely not allowed, do you really want to look like a cow? Punish yourself, less in, more out, look at you, you're just becoming more stout.

Silence.

These feelings are feelings, these thoughts aren't true. All they want is for madness to ensue.

Triggered by perceptions, automatic and vile, deeply convincing, at least for a while.

Now, deep down, I know the truth. I'm healthy and active, no more to do. Fluctuations are normal, restriction is a trap. These thoughts and worries are a big load of crap.

I'll move my attention, to more important things. The blueness of the sky, the joys of spring.

Growth.

Feel my hair in the breeze, hiking in the trees, laughing with friends, around food more at ease.

Triumph.
I am lost in the memories
Of what my mind did to me,
Trying to take an accounting,
So I can unravel the mystery.
I am searching for answers,
So I am not a casualty,
Hoping that this heart will keep beating
In a body that once tried to **** me,
Demanding that there's a different ending
To this accursed story.
I am terrified of what I may do to myself if I let my guard down.
It's not that I don't want to be happy.
It's that at my core,
I do not trust myself.
The Highs taste like Lemon Heads
Before burning my mouth like Cinnamon Red Hots.
The Lows go down like soup of ash and cold water.
I am forever trying to find a balance between the flavors of mania
And the blandness of depression.
Often, I find myself hungry in the wee hours,
Dismayed by both options.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that blood speaks in run on sentences,
Slick syllables flow out of damaged veins like rabid speech
And end in ellipses promising that more will be forthcoming.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that antibacterial soap could never wash the sins out
Enough to make me the saint they always hoped I'd be,
And I am steeped in "nice girl" expectations that never came to fruition.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that my brain went to battle with my body at the age of 12,
And now my eyes have seen more than my heart can hold,
So I keep my emotions locked up like prisoners of war,
Hoping that solitary confinement will lessen their ability to contuse my soul.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that guitar strings leave calluses but release heartache,
That music and poetry are borne of the same cloth and stitch the same wounds.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I've been trying to stitch my own wounds
Since I was a little girl,
Confused and afraid in a world that tried to **** all that was beautiful and different about her.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that this body loves to twirl and flap and rock, and shimmy,
That I am a perpetual motion machine designed to move with the tune of my own feet.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you I've made some ugly scars and beautiful art,
That the line between the two is proportional to my pain threshold.
Sometimes suffering demands that my hands commit crimes against my skin,
But I've learned that I can bleed ink instead of blood.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am often overwhelmed by the darkness of the night sky,
The way the blackness encroaches on the moonlight,
But there's no eloquent speech to convey the way the stars ignite hope in my chest,
Kindle optimism in my heart.
I am desperate to hold on to it.
If my hands could talk,
They'd tell you that I am sometimes so human it cuts me,
But I am learning how to exist within that humanity.
If my hands could talk,
They'd end this poem in a semi colon
Because there's still so much they have to say;
Aspen S Feb 8
i cannot seem to forget
the smallness i had become.
bruised thighs
and sunken eyes
were my reality;
my skin was devoid of
any nutrients,
fragile and delicate.
i could vanish
into nothingness
like quicksand.

my days bled into
one another,
fingers frozen,
heart barely beating,
lungs hardly breathing.
i stared down the
barrel of the gun,
wished to purge my urges,
sat in an endlessly deep
pool of misery until
drowning was all i could do.

i replaced food with air,
consuming empty calories
and dug knives into
my skin as a personal hobby.

i am an open would
that never heals,
and i am desperate
to move on.
a poem on my eating disorder. i thought i had come far only to relapse within a year. here's to starting over.
I write to stay alive,
To release the words that tear my flesh
In their efforts to be born into this world.
I write to leave my mark on the universe
Rather than leaving marks on my skin.
I write to prevent the silence from strangling me
In its utter oppressiveness.
I write to wash the sins out of my body
And the stains off of my hands.
I bleed ink rather than blood
And wax poetic to avoid coveting new scars.
I write because it's the only way I've ever learned
To externalize the humanity that cuts me so deeply.
I write because language saves me from myself.
I write because my very existence depends on it.
I am so lost
In a world that demands I always know
What path my feet pound.
I am seeing ghosts in the mirror,
Memories that follow me
Like I am some sort of light leader.
My face no longer looks the same.
It's shadowed by this sadness,
And I am so tired of feeling like the undead,
Wishing the "un" had never existed in the first place.
I am so lost in a dream I cannot wake up from,
Floating through the air in a twisted mesh of unreality.
I am so lost.
I am so lost.
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