It's better to be be alive and thriving, rather than being consumed, sick and dying.

Bitter sweet air fills my lungs with dignity and doubt all at once.
And although my head knows what needs to be done, the voice inside can no longer be contained.
It screams for a way out.

How can it be? She whispered in silence.
That I have allowed my body, my temple, to be denied of the very things in existence that it needs to survive.

Starve your brain,
alluring pain.
An induction that never ends.
The longer you go,
there will be nothing but just a trail of hideous brittle bones.
As your body begins to deteriorate,
your body will eat your own organs and flesh.
Not so pretty anymore I see,
nothing but a disastrous mess.

for anyone struggling with self-image

She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm . . .
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon an entire campus will mourn.

Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others:
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.

My lovely wife Beth has struggled with an eating disorder for many years. I wrote her a poem titled "Is the Mirror Unkind" soon after meeting her. She was always much lovelier in my eyes than the reflection she saw in the mirror. And she was always much more generous with other people than she was with herself. The flip side of the golden rule is that we should treat ourselves as well as we would have others treat us! I hope anyone struggling with "self reflection" problems will be as generous to themselves as they are to others. And anyone who can sympathize with Beth can sympathize with themselves (hint, hint).

Keywords/Tags: Self Image, Mirror, Anorexia, Anorexic, Eating Disorder, Inferiority Complex, Low Self Esteem, Self Worth, Self Harm, Cutting, Anxiety, Depression, Hopelessness, Suicide

Naked and so very cold on the floor,
Lost in the volatility of my emotions,
Consumed by the forest of my thoughts.
How I long for the solace of sleep,
If only the medicine would kick in,
Pulsing through my veins for the last
Weary bit of my mania,
Attempting to reduce the heat under my overflowing ***.
Dying feels like a release from this hell,
An in between of too much and not enough.
With a coin in bipolar coffer,
My soul springs free,
But I have already given so much.
I do not travel there,
Near the edge,
For I am so excited by possibilities,
But my chest aches with the sadness of this cycle.
I miss me.
If only I could find her.

Dear Sirae,

One. Two. Three. Wait. No. Restart. One. Two. Three. Get it right or do it again. There is no way of gaining happiness without me. Look at you, you’re so foul and huge. ******* disgusting. So do it. Kneel on the cold tile. Feel your hair sweep forward and brush against your face while you bend over. Don’t be weak, push yourself. That wasn’t enough that came up. Again. Again. Again. I own you and you’re not leaving.

- Bulimia

just keep eating until you throw up,

until you can;t,

until you cant feel anymore

Honey to my eyes,
Liquor for the soul.
The chicken soup has lost its taste,
The peas porridge lies cold.
Skin stretched across the ribcage,
Brains rid of juices; lotion:
Twas a death so dramatic
She died in slow motion.