Swells Jun 9
how far have i gone
to collect these uncomfortable bones
whose aching shakes in my skin
like a hungry hound tied to an empty home.

how many blues have i sown
and harvested from each vein
that failed to bleed red, but screamed
"what are you going to gain?"
and crumbled instead.

how many homes have i burned
that nursed me from fetus in my mind
taking stock of careful crutches
while choking on the smoke
in my lies.

how many words have rotted
and blackened like berries on my tongue
that left the god grown belly trembling for
mercy, and the heart begging
"when is it going to be enough?"
Swells Jul 3
i plunder through swollen sky,
cursed by the air surrounding,
coddled and heated at the pyre
with a stale fist to the stomach
like a sacrificial cow before a feast;
i gather at the table and dine
with serpents at the altar
before the King.

scraped from the plate,
cast into a sack,
and handed 209 pills
i become the Queen of Blue
enrobed in hospital-white flesh
commanding Father to kiss at my feet;
i grow tired of these things and
let the stagnancy seep.

my memoirs crown like
multifaceted gems emerging
from a fatherless Mother
gripped at the neck by some
heretic proclaiming about prodigy
and the people applaud at my feat;
i shake hands with the devil
and go back to sleep.

i slumber across the Atlantic
where i can hear your voice
breaking at the shores, calling
for a revelation in me,
oh!  for the love of God--!
the current worries and swallows
me whole like a crook in need
of a baptizing.
Swells Jul 6
the bones were hard to give up,
they pushed out like daisies
caressed under the hounding
heat of a copper sun.
unbridled and undried they bore
zealous arrogance of themselves,
petals dripping vulgar convictions
and vibrating like awful angels.

under cruel devices they tried to
soften my bones and mold thick skull
constructed of lackluster candles
on their last flame.
days passed like doctors and white nurses
examining old wires that pray tell
the routines, the stools, the teeth.
i am their Jesus, their Lazarus.

my hearse, my sheep keeper,
my pretty things,
i become the acrobat at the
finale, the last supper,
supplementing at the teat of my
recovery. i lay my skin down for all
of you to see:  here is my breast!
my toad belly!  my glass feet!
So I just did some math.
This week,
according to the numbers,
I've consumed on average
375 calories a day.
Call it 500.
I have no appetite;
I'm stressed;
It's hot;
I'm ill.
This relapse is
not like the ones I know.
It's so subconscious
I'm drowning
trying to fix it.
I tremble as I write this.
I don't know how I get through the day.
But I do know,
there is a mountain
of responsibilities
that I must manage
regardless.
I can't just over medicate
and play games
when I'm stressed.
I can't rest when I'm sick.
I must bare it all,
for both of us.
I'm being crushed
by this mountain.
Honestly don't know if this poem makes sense.
Joy Jul 8
The siren.
Inviting,
Promising.
Ensuring happiness.
Guaranteeing joy.
Not until she traps you do you wish escape.
Not from what she promised, but from the pain she brought you.
But you've made a home for yourself here.
You've gotten comfortable in the habits she's given you.
But every time she comes to visit, something in your gut screams at you to escape.
No, literally. Your gut. Your stomach. Your intestines.
Your entire body becomes exhausted from chasing her promises.
Now, you've forgotten who you were before she trapped you.
You try and try for what feels like years to escape.
And finally you succeed.
You've successfully escaped the place you call home.
After time and time of being lured back to home, I've come to learn this sirens name.
She is what she does to people. To me.
Forces me to control what I eat.
Makes me second guess myself.
Track everything I eat and drink.
Make me guilty for eating something she doesn't like.
I won't bore you with more grim details, just know,
She has sisters.
Please, don't make the mistake of trusting their promises.
You never truly recover from an eating disorder. They stick with you. They try to lure you back in when you’re at your most vulnerable state.
Laura Jul 7
Bun o'clock
I'm hungry but I don't say anything
Because I can hold on longer

Chew pm
Someone says I look thin
Have I lost weight??

Three pounds
Potentially three pounds
But I don't know because I always think I look bloated

Four ice cubes to tie me over
I don't need to eat
I'm okay

Five fat shaming bitches
Stroll past me in their skinny jeans
Reminding me who deserves to be a size 0

Tricks o' the mind
Start to play
As I tell myself I don't need to eat because I did yesterday

Age seven is when
Mama first told me to stretch my shirts
Hide my figure
Watch what I eat
Stop taking second helpings
No dessert

Eight
Looks like a couple of donuts.
Muffins.  Pizzas.
Any round food.
My round stomach.

Nibble pm.
It's okay to eat a little?  Maybe?

Ten pm?
Or ten candy bars?

Eleven hours later
Nothing in my belly
But four ice cubes

Twelve: time to taunt my taste buds
Trick myself
Tell myself that I'll eat tomorrow
Tomorrow will be the day
The day I really splurge
Everyone knows that's a lie
But my tummy doesn't
Tijana Jul 2
I dont want food to be my adiction anymore
I don't want to numb my emotions by yet another drug
I dont want to sweep everything underneath a rug.

Yes Ive did it wrong, but what could I do?
Food was the only thing that gave me comfort, its not like I've could've shoot up cocaine in my veins at the age of 10.

But I had food, a sick adiction, a temporary fix, for problems that are much deep.

It's a miracle that I could've even function under such amounts of stress, But I did it brave without showing any signs of distress. And why, why wouldnt I feel disstress and pain? anyone that walked in my shoes would feel the same.

So this is my solution, a sour and sweet absolution, from now on there'll be no supstatution for how I feel.
ElEschew Jul 2
Dear food
Why do you take so much energy to chew?
Why cant you stay in the ground where you grew?
Dear food
Why do you feel so heavy in me?
Why do you stay in my arms
my stomach
my thighs
Making them jiggle and filling me with lies
Why make me cry?
Cookies are great
God i miss spaghetti
or spepetti, i called it once
now im a woman
Who would never consume you
If i didnt need you
In my belly
In my mind
You are purely numerical
No longer flavorful
Ana Butterfly Jun 28
Pretty petty perfection,
Looking at my reflection,
Wishing for any form of validation
That my suffering means something.
My body burning, aching
From last nights purging.
Oh how much worse it could have been.
Weighing myself 5 times a day,
Going out of my way to seek attention
That I so desperately want,
While not wanting it at the same time.
People judge,
But they do not see.
They don't see what's behind the suffering.
They don't see the burning and cutting
On my body.
They do not see me obsessing over every calorie.
They do not see me crying myself to sleep every night.
They don't see me holding on to everyone tight,
In hopes that maybe they won't leave
Maybe it's a way of feeling better about myself,
To see how well I can hide so much pain,
But it's better to hide the mess in a closet
To appear clean
im sorry, I know it's bad
Bloop poems Jun 28
I started counting
counting my calories
the numbers between my thighs
how many times I lied about being "fine"
I cant stop counting
I'm counting down
Ill stop counting when i hit

Zero
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