Kevin J Taylor Dec 2018
I love to eat with just a spoon: soups, puddings too, if there is room. I love to eat with forks and knives while dining in with friends and wives. I love to eat with little sticks, especially the tricky bits. But most of all with hands and fingers or any things where flavors lingers.
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
Laura Utter Jan 8
Awoke to find I’m too much today.
My sides too soft
My steps too loud.
Less space around, too much within
Voices thought dead resurrected today,
Voices thought gone come back to speak
To remind me that I am too much again.
Bret Jan 7
*****. Half packets of Crystal Light. Singular squirts of Mio. Water.
Until grade twelve, being the fat girl was all that I knew.
While my friends were arranging dates and sharing clothing, I spent days attempting to find a shirt that made me feel okay.
I couldn’t look like I was trying too hard to hide for my own sake, but I also could not have anything too form fitting because the names that I was called would stay with me forever.
Jeans whose zippers did not do up, clothing stores being branded where only “old ladies” shop being the only places that carried my size and fingernails digging into the skin of my stomach; pinching, bruising and tugging as though if I pulled hard enough, pounds would fall off.
As though, if I pulled and pulled and pulled, somehow a perfect version of myself would be revealed and all would be okay.
I would be okay.

When the weight began to lower, people began to pay attention.
It is made apparent that as soon as stares of admiration, awe and **** began to linger, it means that treatment towards you will soon change.
No longer was I labelled the calorie infused, roll bearing soft drink that skinny girls would never even consider ordering,
rather I was a diet coke, bubbly and full of conversation.
I had their attention finally. I could take photos without being embarrassed. I could do as I wish and be with who I desired because no longer was I being held back by the suffocation of being deemed overweight,
of being different in the eyes of the public.

One day, I made a promise to myself that my weight loss would not encourage me to seek acceptance and attention from the boys in my small town who had never once looked in my direction until every vertebrae of my spine could be counted even through the fabric of my shirt as I sat in a chair.
But, when that’s all that you have craved in so long, it is both an incentive to continue and enough to induce the same high that your stomach growling does.
Suddenly, their eyes on me became just a game.
How many stares could I acquire by the end of a night out, phone numbers could I have added and fingers inside of me due to the deconstruction and reinvention of myself?
The answer is simple:
as long as the number of your body count is higher than that of the calorie intake of the day,
you win.

After all, this journey was for me. Right? That was what I heard endlessly.
Flurries of
“You look so good,”
“I am so glad that you made the decision to get healthy,”
and “Do you want to go out with me,”
were dialogues that had previously been foreign to me but now occupied the entirety of social considerations relating to me.
I had gone from a ghost, simply navigating through life unnoticed for fear of others being seen with me
to a staple of success,
someone who everyone wanted to be.
Being able to see each of my ribs as easily as the keys of a piano,
the ivory hidden behind the pale shield that was so viciously criticized by others,
was all that I needed to breeze through my high school years. That was all. Why hadn’t I done this before?

I was no longer a person by the time I graduated.
I was a machine that had been conditioned to attain whatever standard society deemed fit for that day.
Thick. Curvy. Victoria’s Secret. Fenty.
Those trends became just words again. I didn’t want to be those things.
I wanted to be the girl whose clothes are always baggy, who gets sick at the thought of ordering an extra small shirt because it could be smaller and who believes that a size zero is far from good enough.
I fed into the belief that the numbers on the scale and that were embroidered into the jeans that graced my hips are the complete dictator of my worth.
I wanted to be the success story worthy of the compliments that I had received because progress and results deserve rewards.

The problem is that instead of the relief and rest that I desired upon being thin, I have been rewarded with fainting in class, constant streams of questions, getting drunk with one shot and a constant calculator that ticks in my mind.
How many calories are in a piece of gum? How many calories are in one piece of lettuce? How many cups of water can I drink in one day to finally feel full?
I understand that my ultimate goal weight will continue to leap backwards, as though it was never stagnant in the first place.
150. 140. 130. 120. 110.
In that moment, I am simply a fragment of the ghost that was left behind,
one that is only content with a scale reading of less than zero.

And that is perhaps the understanding that being the fat girl is truly all that I know.
Trigger warning: eating disorder
A Jan 3
Dating someone with trauma and an eating disorder
Is sometimes dating someone who you
Can't touch
Can't see
Is constantly hidden behind
Because why should you see the inner working of their mind
If it’s something they’re afraid of themselves
guess who's back
Opposite you at a table
Is a wrong place to be.
I would rather sit by you side,
Where I can hide.

With my back against the wall
Is better
Feeling solidity,
Less vulnerability.

When we are facing
A shyness arises.
The past replicated.

My Fathers table,
Long ago
When to speak?
To young to know.
amber Dec 2018
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
Glenn Currier Dec 2018
Have you ever eaten so much
you got queasy or worse
found the porcelain *** in your clutch
cursed yourself as dumb and perverse?

It’s really no joking matter to me
as now I picture myself there
pitifully low on bended knee
in need of an earnest prayer:

Lord, may I never again return
nor forget this impulse that brings me low
lead me to a more worthy food and learn
to shout to my ***** craving: Whoa!
Kat Dec 2018
Dear mom and dad
I'm sorry I think I was born broken
You might think otherwise
I know it is true
I know I was not born broken

How else could you explain
When I was 15
I beat the eating disorder that could have killed me
Proved it was not the only way
To live
Three years later
I found a reason to live again
Found myself a full-time job
Traveled to foreign countries
Applied to college
Learned a new language
Learned to be happy again
When I thought happiness
Was just a dream
Sophomore year of college
The world threw me a curveball
And I couldn't dodge it
But I tried so ******* hard
To heal the wounds it left
Reached out to friends
For the first time
Found a counsellor and a psychiatrist
Learned to ask for help
And learned
That help is there
When I need it the most
I take pills three times a day
In the hope
That they will make me happy
Because I'm trying my best to become
The happy person
The successful person
The calm person
I know I can be
Know I have been

How else could you explain
Every day
My memories are tinted with
With the knowledge of all I have survived
The knowledge of all I have accomplished
The knowledge that it can get better
I care so much
That you care
And when I feel like I hurt you
I remind myself
That I am not the burden
I think I am

I'm sorry I think I was born broken
But I'm not sorry I am me
On my way to becoming
The person I want to be
Know I can become
This poem is a response to my poem "Born Broken." When dealing with mental illness makes me feel broken, I try to remember what I've accomplished and how I've survived and learned from difficult experiences.
Kat Dec 2018
Dear mom and dad
I'm sorry I was born broken
You might think otherwise
I know it is true
I know I was born broken  

How else could you explain
When I was 15
I starved myself till I was just a skeleton
Because I thought it was the only way
To live
Two years later
I spent hours
Sobbing in my room
Shaking from my tears
To your hugs
Left bruises on my skin
To punish myself
For hurting you
For hurting myself
Sophomore year of college
The world threw me a curveball
And I couldn't dodge it
Let it ******* my skin
Lodge in my organs
Fester until
It filled my body with fear
Until I succumbed
To my anxiety
Called you crying
Rambling the same rants
Over and over again
I take pills three times a day
In the hope
That they will make me happy
But I am still not
The happy person
The normal person
The calm person
I should be
Should have been

How else could you explain
Every day
My memories are coated
With the fog of your tears
The worry on your faces
The wondering in your voices
I care so much
That you care
But when I hurt you
I hurt myself
And in hurting myself
I hurt you more

I'm sorry I was born broken
I'm sorry I am me
And not the person I want to be
The person you probably
Wish I was
This poem is meant to be read in conjunction with my poem "Born Broken: A Response"
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