I waterfall my fingers down my throat
and wriggle them like they’re alive,
like I’m nineteen years old again,
trying to prove that I’m the cool girl
with no gag reflex.

The shower runs on boiling hot
and if I stand, I might fall,
so I’m taking the hair-infested plughole
as my date to the dance,
once I’m done with the black hole left in its absence.

My fingers are uncomfortably water-warm
and if I close my eyes, it feels so good,
like the first time I realised there was a clenched fist
inside my stomach that I could begin
to uncurl.

When I think about it, it’s like *******.
It’s something I wouldn’t talk about in Church
and it’s something I should only do behind closed doors.
A lot of things are like *******, in that way,
like being gay, and cutting my own hair, and whatever this is.

It’s a distraction.
It’s something to do when the list of things to be done
is the same every day, when the doors are perpetually
shut and the clenched fist will always be clenched
once rigor mortis has set in.

i am numb.
this is the one place
i cannot bear to take you,
even though i am prepared
to go to hell with you,
i will not bring you here.

it is a bathroom.
any bathroom, really,
as long as there’s something
to lean over,
something to flush,
something to destroy
the moment the room is occupied.

it’s alright, though,
because there’s a whole world
out there for us,
with gorgeous architecture
and natural allure,
so let’s go there, instead.

yes, i’ll be out soon.
if you have the tickets,
we can go anywhere.
just give me twenty minutes
to make everything okay again,
and i’ll take you
to see the taj mahal,
the colosseum,
the broken ruins of rome.

but i can never take you here.
i’m sorry;
whatever metaphorical journey
you may have thought you were on
ends here.
it’s just not something i can bring you into.

this is mine.
and i’m calling this the end.

TW:ED

As I stand there with the end of my toothbrush sitting on my lips
I think to myself,
“But if I just did it once no one would know”
And I could feel the satisfaction of an empty stomach;
The walls of it clinging to my ribs.
If I just did it once,
I could see if it works.
If it would allow me to look into the mirror
And not hate the girl who stares back at me.
Her stretch marks growing larger and darker
Though she doesn't know why,
Because she can barely bring herself to eat one meal a day.
What's stopping this fragile, broken girl from ending her pain,
And finally being happy
With who she sees in the mirror.
What's stopping her from finally being able to please her mother
Who groans and stares
When she goes back for a second plate of food.
What's stopping her from fitting the beauty standard,
And being loved and praised by all who see her.

But for some reason
Even eating practically nothing everyday
Does not change the girl she sees looking back at her;
Watching the numbers on the scale go up
As her happiness rapidly declines.
And seeing the look in her mothers eyes
As she wonders why you're eating everything
Yet nothing all at the same time.

As I sit here, staring at the lunch I had an hour ago, I can't help but to feel disgusted.
As hard as I try to ignore it, the saliva dripping onto my feet makes its way into my consciousness, reminding me of how low I am.
I constantly avoid looking at my hands, for seeing what I have done makes me want to despise myself even more than I already do.
The dull throbbing at the base of my neck coming from this compromising position almost makes me want to sit up straight and put an end to this activity; however, I know that I don't want to stop, not yet.
I have so much more I know I can let go

Food. What is food?
Is it something everyone needs to survive? Is it the thing that takes forever to make and has even less time time to enjoy?
Is it the beautiful plants that grow in the right season that produces so much pride that they deserve an instagram post?
Or is the thing that many people will never have the money to see?
For me, it is the center of everyday. It is the one thing that I know dictates my entire life. It is the one thing I wish I could forget and the one thing I wish I could live without.
It is the thing that forces me to do math, and it is the thing that keeps me from knowing any sort of satisfaction.
It is the thing that makes me wish I were someone else, anyone else.
It is the thing that I spend hours thinking about, measuring, classifying, and the one thing that I can never seem to get correct. It is also the thing that makes me cry at night. It makes me feel alone.
It is the thing that causes me to spend every day working out even when I don't want to, and it has made me be friends with a scale that isn't very friendly.
It is a bully, a cruel "ex" friend that wishes I were never born and it is a fighter that knows how to pack a heavy punch.
For me, it has not been very kind. It has been the thing that controls who I am.
It is THE thing, and sadly, it is everything.

Words,
They could never hurt,
They could never cut,
They could never make you bleed,
Physically.

Words,
A manifestation of self-hate,
Written in bold,
Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression,
I was sold.

Words,
The last,
Written on a bloodstained note,
"I can't stay afloat"

It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.

No normal pangs of hunger -
gorging beast within my face.
Heaving it up in sacrificial abjure,
a rejected fall from grace.

An act of complete surrender -
heavy pressure in my chest.
The beat continues beating;
Yet I fear it will arrest.

Mirrors turned to enemies;
A smile turned to grief.
A day without ingestion
becomes a dangerously sweet relief.

Abandoning dreams to disappear -
affliction taking hold.
Imperfection sought to fix, with
restricted weight controlled.

It started with a thought -
a solitary lie.
Cunning in it's deceit,
no freedom, lest I die.