It hurts…

It hurts to look in the mirror
And see the thin white strands cross my leg

It hurts to see my ribs in the mirror
When I look at myself

It hurts to look at my face
To see tears falling and the bags below my eyes

It hurts to see the blade
When i close my eyes

It hurts to think about the blade
To feel the urge to find it

It hurts
It hurts
it hurts

But it hurts way more to stop
But it hurts way more to be clean
But it hurts way more to see the scale tick up’

something hurts
and it hurts way more

if i carved my pain
into my skin,
if i starved myself
into nothing,
if i made a graveyard
of my body,
would you believe me then?

tell me,
how much of me
must i destroy
before you see
i'm already gone?

It's not an addiction,
Really it's not.
But that mirror,
It's a source of affliction.

Not long ago,
I could look in that mirror
And see nothing wrong at all,
But now I've got nothing to show.

The pressure to be perfect,
It tears away at my body.
At first it looked like nothing,
But it had a side effect.

I wanted to be one of them,
One of those girls everyone envied.
But the price to pay was my body,
Not a small pretty diamond gem.

It was never enough,
No matter what I did.
The skipped meals
Turned my image rough.

But will it ever be worth it?
I stare and ask myself.
My image in the mirror,
Kept begging just to quit.

It became a nightly thing,
Standing on that scale.
And I was pleased to see
That the pounds kept dropping.

My hair was starting to thin.
My bones began to show.
Everything was different.
The desire was starting to win.

The pain I was putting myself through,
The constant suffering,
Everything was just a blur,
But nobody ever knew.

I don't starve anymore,
But I could if I tried.
It was a part of my life,
Now just a closed door.

It's not an addiction,
Really, it's not.
But that mirror,
It's a source of affliction.

When will it stop?
The constant, confusing whiplash
Of hatred
Of acceptance
Of compelled shoving fingers down your throat
Of etching paintings into your skin, with a pointed brush
If only to release
When will it stop?
The hypocrisy of trying to help someone
When you can barely help yourself
Sitting in front of a screen, telling them it'll all be fine
But you have a blade in your hands
And a finger in your throat
When will it stop?
The vicissitude of everyday
Blythe simplicity on one
Slowly killing yourself the next
The good days, I'm able to have a painful relationship with food
Thinking, but not acting
Even if for an hour
For that hour, I am whole and I am free
But the bad days, silent ruminations engulf my head
Of painting scarlet
And expelling
When will it stop?
The compulsions taking over me

I need help
so I yell and I scream at them
until my lungs give up
and my heart gives out.
silently wishing, hoping
they’ll understand that
I’m not a terrible person.
I’m just hurting

I need help
so I etch the pain into my skin
pleading, begging, praying
for someone to notice the glaring welts

I need help
so I skip one meal
then three
make a chart for the weights
and the calories
waiting to reach the impossible goal

I need help
but I shake in my seat
suffocating in my own lungs
tumbling out of control
I grip my seat so tight my knuckles turn white
wait until
my breath hitches,
my breathing stops

In the mirror's reflection, a distorted self,
A quiet struggle unfolds, invisible to others.
Every meal becomes a battleground,
Where thoughts race too fast,
feeding fears and doubts.
The mind spins in a relentless cycle,
Chasing illusions of control and worth.
Yet within this turmoil, a fragile hope emerges,
A gentle promise that healing is possible,
And a brighter path awaits beyond the shadows.
Don't know what's going on,
you only know that your brain is on fire,
you can't think right because you're thinking a thousand miles an hour.

Some people know what it’s like
To feel a knot in the back of your throat
To feel that knot untying, loosening a seam
To know that there’s a hole  
To try and fill that hole
To know that there’s a hole that cannot be filled
To try and fill that hole.

Some people know what it’s like
To feel that brief blissful void
To know the release into nothingness
To think without weight
Only to become heavier.

Some people know what it’s like,
To want to be like them
To wait to be like them
To try to be like them, effortlessly
To fail to be like them, painstakingly.

And some People know, they are not alone