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.

i remember the scratching sound of the record player
i remember the sharp blade of the scissors as the dim light reflected
i remember the noise of the cars 4 stories below
i remember the pills i thought of dying from so many times
i remember getting so acquainted with death that i tried to join him
i remember the red lines on my wrist
i remember feeling the sharp sting
i remember the music giving me life
i remember the music making me feel things that i don't feel
i remember the lights
i remember fading away
i remember my phone wallpaper
i remember the music taking me away
i remember blades of grass, so sharp in the morning sun
i remember sitting in my window nook as it rains
i remember the noise
i remember shutting down
i remember foggy mornings
i remember not talking
i remember not moving
i remember not being able to breathe
i remember the streetlights
i remember not feeling like myself
i remember looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger
i remember the sound of a fountain pen on parchment paper
i remember the taste of lemonade in the summer
i remember cloth scraping against flesh
i remember ribs poking through translucent skin
i remember dizziness
i remember the hunger
i remember the sun
i remember the rain
i remember drawing with posca markers on my arm
i remember dancing in puddles

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.

I had cookies after lunch
I had it, to tell myself
I could do it
I could eat cookies
and not think about the numbers
I could eat cookies
and not stare into the toilet bowl
I couldn’t do it
I looked into the toilet bowl
Reached into my mouth
And pulled it out
With slow and painful shoves
Though slow,
The way it happens
Is expedited
But it’s not enough
It’s never enough
The inside of the toilet bowl is stained with regret
The inside of my guts are still full of regret
But I cant get it out
It stays
I couldn’t do it
I don’t know when my food
Started tasting like regret
And looking like numbers
I miss how it made me feel
When my parents got me a donut
The smell of the warm bread
The feel of the chocolate between my fingers
I could eat 2 at once
And not give it a second thought
All 2 donuts are now
Is 500
500 too many
500 more of regret
I don’t want to think about the numbers
On the scale
Of my food
The number of scars I’ve painted on my thigh
I’ve never preferred math

and at the closing
he promises and promises
the last scene is just
around another corner.

and the pile of clothes in the corner is
just a
pile of clothes
but i know things aren’t right.

that the burning in my mouth
the locking of bones and sinew
once a month between us
isn’t satiating.

the thing inside of me pulsing.

i’m a neck viewer
using his curls as curtains.
compromise
watching things burst from other things.

remember
monsters break apart their hosts in escape.

compulsion
emerges from the core because
of the nature of change.

back in the moment:
the screen darker than dark.
my need, this body horror
spills out of me.

Look, here I am
Reclined, legs akimbo,
Outwardly bulging to lordosis.
A pint of blueberries on my hips, form
A **** train through my lips

I had been honored by the Hoarding Board:
Primly donuts, princely Kinder,
Father Belvita, priggish pretzels.

They were folded
With teeth, into acid.
They're all memorialized, in thrall
Wrappers nested within wrappers

Yes. Here I am
Churning away
My heart pulsing lust
My fingers settling dust.

Your concerns in front of the mirrors
Of dressing rooms, of fitness-gymnasiums
Petty.

I'm above all that,
I ate all of that.
Pretty.

I'm trapped
Food mapped out
No way out
Am I losing my mind?
How will I find a way out of this bind?
Out of this mess of a mind
No hope for the chains to be released
This is my way to cope with the pains, they never cease
I need a solution
Too much pollution clogging the pathways in this brain
I need a new way forward
A way to feel sane
But for now I'm trapped
no need to complain -- I did this to myself
no need to compalin -- it's time to get help and start helping myself

Resistance,
It is all I know.
Forks and spoons
Are all for show.

My taste buds,
Numbing.
My senses,
Succumbing.

To bitter truth
Of my body,
Crumbling.

My stomach,
Rumbling.

This is torture and divine,
All at the same time.

For I am blind,
And my body is weak.
Crawling with little energy,
For no meal shall I eat.

I will wait and see,
Who finds me,
In front of my reflection.

For sustenance,
I welcome rejection.
My body,
Now filled with injection.

For you mention,
That I
Am a section
Of what I used to be.

Leaving me
To feel like rotten meat.
But you,
Scolded my body.

Isn't this what you wanted to see?