Violin in my ribs
Guitar in my heart
Drums in my mind
Yet all out of sync
Guess I need a perfect conductor
But who will be brave enough
To tame such a disordered body?

Curves melting away
Numbers dropping
An obsessive measurement of worth

One food at a time
Or
Consider mixing it all together

Counting bites
Counting grains, kernels, seeds
Counting times chewed

26 waist
32 hip
5 wrist

11 neck
7 forearm
30 ribcage

17.8 bmi
16.3 body fat
98 lbs

Obsessively memorizing
Remeasuring
Plugging in numbers

Worrying if you look sick
Collar bones too defined
Hip bones jutting out just too much

Getting scared
Binging
Purging

Feeling deliciously empty
Thinking clearly
Everything fuzzy at the edge

It ain't a ******* joke

it dimmed my light
it made me lie
it made me say things
i would've never said
it made me wish that i was dead
summing up everything, i'm barely alive
i'm nothing but a walking frame
i never have anything left to say
all my interests are consumed
by keeping track of my intake
keeping track of my weight
keeping track for my sanity's sake
but that's one more thing to keep me awake
and i don't know how much more of it i can take

time passes by
and i don't realize it
see
i must just dissociate each moment
they say it happens when there is something bad going on
it's a so called "escape"
each moment is bad
so i can believe that
because
i'm not so sick anymore and i'm envious of the sick girls
my therapist said i don't need a high level of care anymore
so i guess i've failed
****
****
****
**** i ******* wish i couldnt walk again
looking like an auschwitz survivor
and i'm jealous
of girls bruised knuckles and
caved in eyes
now i jiggle
i was once that way
can't i do it again?
again
again
again
again im in a position that my body makes me want to die
or look like i am atleast
how did i get this big?
come back, come back
i need that illness back or else i might not be able to go on
i need it.
come back.

Am I going crazy?

Perhaps one should define the term crazy,
maybe it is these moods swings: always violent but never long.
Or my hysterical crying in the early morning though I never remember what for.

On the days it rains hardest in the black of midnight,
I rise from slumber like the undead to stare blankly at the water-streaked pane and wonder
"Why me?!
Why was I blessed to hold a mind this heavy?."
In the spirit of my family name I never talk about it,
about the insane thoughts that run like school children in summer between my ears.

My father once told me he would love to see a psychiatrist just to sort some things out but I have to wonder how much a man with a family history of hiding yourself behind intellect and avoidance tactics could mean it.
My grandmother still doesn't call to tell us she's sick,
just mentions it as an afterthought,
a hey-I-forgot-to even as her husband slowly forgets everything he thought he knew.
Maybe I was born with this shame in my blood,
or maybe that is where this sickness came from,
My ever present thoughts and their not so secret toll on my wellbeing.
But since we don't talk about it I have to wonder:

is this just me?
Am I going crazy?
Is this why all good poets write?
Is this why they all **** themselves?

The demons are on replay today

Circling through my mind.

I’m trying to tell them they’re not telling the truth

Yet somehow, it’s hard to find

The words to say back to them

As they batter me inside

One glimpse at a mirror is all they need

To crush my soul and pride.

You’re fat, you’re ugly, you’re worthless

As though my appearance is the epitome

Of my future destiny

As though it matters how I look.

I try to be strong, to fight their throng,

of never ending bashes,

yet sometimes I am prone to crashes,

where tears fall from my lashes

and I feel as though I’ve been reduced to ashes.

But I must fight, I must continue on.

For an ending isn’t the solution.

No matter how much I want to curl up in a ball

And hide from all

I can’t be small, I must stand tall.

You’re not a burden, you’re a human,

With so much more to you than looks and appearance.

So fight the urge to restrict
This is the real Laura’s edict.

we, all of us, all these
kids
who make lists
and count, count doorknobs
and bus stops and fenceposts and cars on the highway
and scars and broken bones and illnesses
we make lists and reasons and categorize
categorize, organize, memorize
we know, we KNOW how many steps it takes to get to the mailbox
the bus stop
the garage and the car
we count the steps to putting on shoes
1. pick up shoe 2. open 3. pull on 4. tie
we remember the things everyone tells us to stop worrying about
like we don't KNOW
that the weight of this big big world doesn't rest on us alone
and that turning the lock three times doesn't lock it tighter
that going right sock right shoe, left sock left shoe
isn't gonna make things better in the long run we KNOW
we know we've got everything categorized and memorized
and then people have the audacity to say our mental states
are disordered

I don't need to list the reasons,
What I need is a reason not to.
You've heard me talk like this before.
And somehow my silence seems like a bandaid-
Like maybe if I just don't talk about it
Everything will get better.
Maybe if enough time passes,
It will all, eventually, heal.
But that is *******.
I don't need your permission,
**** forgiveness.
My intentions have their own agenda
But it's never hidden.
Quite the opposite- I'm plain sight.
Don't have to wait for night
To let the darkness take me.
I'm honest, open,
And honestly I'd rather be sleeping
In a closed casket; no one
Wants to see my blown off brain bits
And some teeth meshed with leftover tendonis threads
Dangling from my severed neck.
But those tooth shards are smiling-
The bandaid has been ripped off
The time has ran out,
Sand in my mouth.
Dirt where my eye sockets used to be.
This isn't me,
This whole "life" thing...
I don't need to list the reasons.

I never signed up for this ****-
Where do I **check out.