Alone
In a dark
Quiet room,
She lies on the floor.
Guilt swirling through her mind.

"But I'm better," she lies to herself.

The dusty mirror begs to differ
The voices in her head don't approve.
She can't stop thinking about the fat in
Her thighs
Her face,
Her stomach.
She pulls her hair away and
Gives in.

"It won't happen again," she lies to herself.

Alone
In a dark
Quiet room
She lies
In a casket.

It's funny that something that could **** you
Something that probably will **** you
Can be so comforting

It's the one reliable thing you have
It's easy to fall into the patterns again
It's easy to hide it (to a point, but by that time you're too far gone)

Because it feels so good
To have your body disintegrate
To have your head swim and hands shake
It's better then the alternative, at least

I don't want to feel like I'm losing myself
But that may be the only way to go
Until my bones, my veins, they show
Because the alternative is **too dangerous

the scent of you still clings to my sheets
and feelings confuse me
my skype history is a long list of confessions but my biggest secrets are still buried within me
i feel sick
i wish i could purge on self-hatred
i'll dig out these secrets for the sake of this poem, or ramble, or whatever it is
core myself on sharp shards of broken hearts - i have plenty to choose from
more fuel to the fire, my ever-burning hatred for myself
when will it consume me?
i feel sick

confession no.1
i just ate all of the chocolate in the fridge so it wouldn't have to stare me in the face any longer
swallowed it down like its sweetness didn't make me feel bitter
and followed it with a bowl of cereal as a last hoorah for my oncoming diet

confession no.2
i'm **** at this poetry thing
or at least that's how i feel

i can't even be good at something i love
how could anyone expect me to be good at loving?

confession no.3
right now, i feel nothing but resentment and hatred for my mother
her snide comment about my commitment to my therapy made me want to break her neck

confession no.4
i'm incredibly blunt, which is probably why i **** at poetry
i also haven't gotten my anger issues in check
today, on the bus, i imagined shooting this racist woman's head repeatedly and i was angry that i couldn't make her bleed

confession no.5
it's raining outside and i don't feel any calmer
perhaps it's just too mild for me when i feel this stormy
biting back torrential tears like not crying will somehow make me a stronger hurricane
but
i'm still not good enough to blow anybody away

confession no.6
i feel sick in every sense of the word
i kind of want to die

My demons don't like
the food that I eat.
They taunt me, sending me
running to the bathroom in defeat.

You are not worthy, they say
as I bow at their request.
That food was no good.
now the toilet bowl is my only rest.

My heart breaks, slowly
and pained tears begin to fall.
I have nothing left to give, I say,
I've already given you my all.

I stand and try without success
to wipe my steady tears away.
Looking in the mirror at my swollen eyes
I remind myself tomorrow is a new day.

I alone, carry the scars of my past
Each slash defining vital moments
Vital clues
Vital times, that left me askew
Each faded mark
Marring the once blank canvas
That is my skin
I alone, carry the scars of my past
With each day they fade
Memoir's imprinted onto decaying skin
Emotions blanched by insecurities
With each day they fade
They fade away,
The associated moments drifting
I alone, carry the scars of my past
The girl who had inflicted these wounds,
No longer exists
The girl who had inflicted these wounds,
No longer exists
For she is me
And I am no longer her
I alone, carry the scars of my past
The girl I once was
Will not define the girl I will be
The girl I once was
Will not define the future
She is a ghost
She has left me with only a mere remnant of herself;
Scars

no matter
how hard
i try
i can't make my pain beautiful;
i can't make myself beautiful;
i can't make myself feel beautiful.

no matter
how hard
i try
i cannot convince myself that beauty
is a taste i enjoy on my tongue,
is a feeling i crave, that burning sensation
at the back of my throat,
on the back of my tongue

i cannot make an illness beautiful, for simply
it is not.
illnesses aren't beautiful, and they were never meant to be-
that's why people try to cure them.
in a world where beauty is the standard,
ugliness will not survive.
ironic, then, that illnesses are ugly
yet illnesses are becoming strategies
to achieving beauty

what an ugly concept.

concept: the more i *****, the skinnier i become
the more beautiful i am, right?
concept: the less i eat, the more i gain
concept: the thinspiration tag on tumblr has all of the
answers. so answer me this:
why am i so fragile? i feel my soul must be weaker
than the stick-thin bodies photographed for toxic aspirations;
surely they must snap like twigs whenever they fall...
i know the ease with which i break apart whenever i fall down

concept: i have friends and family that love me,
people who are attracted to me,
my friends' friends admire me, aspire to be like me
i should not be so insecure, so desperate to make myself skinnier,
more beautiful, more perfect.
bones are not the default of beauty.

bones are what survive beneath the ground when all else rots away;
these illnesses will have me rotting
before my bones can even finish growing.
there will be weeds and vines growing around my ribs, weaving
like a macabre masterpiece mounting the soil on which i've laid myself to rest
and my skeleton's skinless fingers, slender and spiraled into the ground,
will be the only thing about me that have ever had a grip.

lately i've been made up of broken sanity, loosely grasping
at the frayed edges of myself
as i come apart each night, again and again - my skeletal fingers
will grip this earth with a strength to rival my passion for nature
for while i will be dead, at least i will finally be
committed to something
i love.

what a shame that i'll never love who i am enough
to be committed to myself.

i was sad, so one day i just stopped eating

Every night I pass my mirror and I hear the beckoning call,
"Come to me my love I won't hurt you, not at all".
I turn to see the bright familiar face a ghostly apparition shimmering in the mirror,
she always lures me with intentions that make myself quiver,
and yet I yearn to go back always for more,
Mia the perfect girl; the final form.
My hand raises as I begin to touch the light she casts,
I see myself reflecting in the background,
I am faded while she dominates the glass.
Darkness entails me when I step through the mirror,
a sickening feeling of blindness and sheer terror.
All I hear is the echoing laughter of the sickening girl, hurling insults and making me want to dive deeper into her world,
"Disgusting
"Worthless
"Horrible"
And
"Fat"
These are only the mediocre things she says when I'm fighting this horrible trap.
But again I always come back always for more,
I conjure this, as I ***** on the toilet of her bathroom floor.
Mia is holding my hair, consoling while Im chocking and sprawled.
"Good girl" she says "You have nothing to fear not anymore"
She picks me up grasps me tells me I'm now beautiful,
" Thank you" I reply "then why do I feel so horrible?"
"For you are killing yourself you see; look back into the mirror and follow me"
I follow In desperation willing myself to live,
I want to be perfect but is dying something I truly can forgive?
I glance again, a reflection of myself and her by my side.
She whispers in my ear "you are not truly alive"
I look back towards myself she is now gone but I still stand there,
We are one
now a whole,
Her world is my own and now I'm left all alone.