‪People won’t love me unless I’m thin. ‬
‪They say “be happy in your own skin.” ‬
‪But how can I be happy when I’m so fat it’s a crime. ‬
‪I want to be less then a hundred pounds but I know that will take time. ‬
‪It will take time to be beautiful and thin. Then finally I’ll be comfortable in my own skin. ‬

I was a withered plant hidden from the light
Wilted
I thought i was beyond help
But I never truly knew
Until I was back in the sun
Now I bask in his light
As his fingers brush along my cheek
My chest
My thighs
His touch fills me with a warmth I never thought I’d know again
After years spent freezing
His smile bathes me in a light id never thought I’d see
And I’ve begun to grow
Flourishing through the growing pains
I let myself breathe
I let myself need
I let myself eat
I let the bruises fade
And my heart begins to beat again
And I’ve learned how to love again

Because I'm already full
With the thoughts of her.

Dear 17 year-old Laura,

Don't worry so much about being perfect
Don't push yourself to get the highest marks you can get

You certainly don't have to do it all
You deserve a break, even if it's small

You're beautiful
I know you may not think that but it certainly is true
Inside and out
Beautiful, that's you

Ignore the imperfections you see in the mirror
For only you are able to see
The "too big stomach" and "jiggly thighs"
You're gorgeous as can be

I know you're scared to graduate
You became comfortable in high school,
But the world is so much bigger,
Adventure awaits you

Please don't think that you're ugly
Boys will come and go
Focus on liking yourself
Though that's hard, I know

The summer did flash by for you
University hit you hard
Please don't be mad at yourself
For all your "unsightly lard"

You became ill and that's okay
None of this was your choice
It's not your fault you spiraled down
From listening to that voice

The hardest months of your life thus far
You sadly had to endure
Because you couldn't forgive yourself
Mental illness is a blur

Shame and stigma rotted your mind
Made you think this was your volition
Like someone gets cancer, you became sick
Becoming mentally ill wasn't a mission

Your life will slowly rebuild
The future will have ups and downs,
You should be incredibly proud of what you survived
Continue to fight those sounds

breakfast is the most important meal of the day
which is something i would laugh off
as my stomach would growl in my nutritions class
and i learned to inhale sharply to somehow combat the noise
the noise of my stomach screaming to the world in that backstabbing way
that i am not eating breakfast
nor did i eat much of dinner
nor will i want to be able to stomach anything for lunch

“i’m completely normal”
my eating habits aren’t rapidly fluctuating
i’m not sleeping during completely random times of the day
trying to sleep off my body’s hunger
like i can sleep off frustration
(nutrients are a constant need
they don’t just stop being things you need
because you just don’t want anything
in your body anymore)

you used to want so much

what’s so baffling is that sometimes
hunger can feel like the muffled conversation
riddled with worry
hunger is the knocking on the door
telling you that it wants to come in
and you don’t want it to
but for a reason you know makes no sense
but it makes perfect sense in the moment

when your brain shakes hands with itself
and tells you that eating is for when the work is done
when the reward is deserved
that a need is a want
and needs are intangible things that keep you socially alive
rather than actually
and then you ask yourself
if you, wanting to feel alive
is the problem

when i don’t eat
i am empty
i don’t make ****** functions
because my body cannot function
and when i function,
my body is empty
and to keep my body empty
i do not eat

there is no beauty in feeling hollow

breakfast is the most important meal of the day
which is something i would laugh off
as i could barely stand up in a hot shower
as i could barely utter a conscious word
without overworking my brain
my brain that shakes hands with itself
to communicate with itself
that i do not deserve to eat food
i do not deserve to feel alive

i want eating
to feel normal
i want to put
priority on food
but i cannot bear
to feel present
but i cannot bear
to be present
when i do not
feel present
because i am
not present
i am not
me

I don't know what to do today
I must confess
I did my best
To restrict a bit
To make my stomach flat
I know that I can't do this
If I want to recover
And be the girl my mother
Knows again
I should not care what I eat
Or what I wear
In fact
I should wear what
Makes me smile
But the reflection in the mirror
Is a deadly persuasive
And the diary says
"Beautiful child
"You are listening again
"You see yourself as you are
"And that is as not enough
"Come with me dear"
But I have dreams
I do declare
I have dreams that will crush you
Dreams that will stomp the whole world flat
"What dreams?"
It laughs
"If you had dreams
"I would not speak
"The disordered do not have dreams
"Love
"They have fantasies
"Delusions of grandeur
"Drugged up hallucinations
"From fasting"
I nod my head
Pay my respects
And am led away
But part of me says
"No."
I am a dreamer
I am a high hopes believer
I am a fantacizer
And a far stretch reciever
But I am not delusional
And this is not a diary
It is a disorder
So maybe I should stop writing

at one point
I couldn’t walk
five metres from
a car to a
hospital door -
way

starved for weeks
until hunger didn’t hurt,
until the numbers
blurred

at one point
I drank *****
out in the street,
drenched in rain

restrained by
two emergency
department security
guards who did not
understand why

I was smashing my
wrist into the
floor

at one point
I drank a pint
of water and made
myself sick

over and
over

rinse
repeat

I tried to die
afraid to live
scared of the
men who lurked
like spectres in
my dreams

they are the
cause of my
pain, of the
letters after
my name

a badge of
insanity

at one point
I hope to want
to live

I slurp down
a salty golden liquid
full of lacerated noodles and flakes
which glisten in their own yellowed oil spill.

I tip the bowl to my mouth
and it fills my stomach from the bottom.

She's made it just for me,
just in time for my despair
although she didn't know that
when she made it.

I'm sick!
I tell her.
I was.

Fever, achy joints,
pits of nausea, and silicone pain,
the works.

I'm getting better.
there is just a dull ache left
but I am still sick
in the head.

A head where plays
a tug of war between
anguish with a goofy hat
and comedy with a noose.

My body gets dragged along with
my chemical eruptions
both biological
and habit-forming,
and my body grows tired.

The soup goes down quick;
the main course after leftovers from lunch.
And all of it fizzles in my belly.

A cigarette might help all of it a little.
Except for the despair.
The soup is for my despair.