Is it my voice, or yours, that I hear
When I pick up a knife and fork and put
It straight back down because
I haven’t earned my reward?

Are they my eyes, or yours, that trick me
Into thinking I’ve gained immense amounts of weight,
Even though my clothes hang loose and
I’ve lost two inches off my waist?

*

It’s ironic,
this disease;
it eats away at me.
The malignancy consumes me.

we were only kids
thirteen and twelve
you'll never understand the grief you caused--
i lost myself

adrift in a world of nightmares flashing always, never ceasing
you had me on the run
from everything that i was thinking, wanting, feeling

tracking calories and body weight to regain control
spiraled into darkness with drugs and alcohol

my head is and was and always will be such a mess
i swear i screamed out NO but all you heard was Yes

~

what the **** happened to you

and, more importantly,

what happened to me?

This is the sweet spot
No sweet tooth again
Needing less from me
I'll be less than I should

“But I was so much skinnier back then,
And I looked so much better”
I hear myself say.
But I was drinking three meal replacement shakes a day
And passing out after running 3k.

I miss the days
When I could just eat without thinking about it
Without counting the calories
Without shaking with guilt
Without feeling so awful that I shove my fingers down my throat just to pull it out
To remove the weight
To release the guilt and shame and food into the toilet bowl

The cold bathroom floor has become comforting.
Knowing that after kneeling down on it, my hands trembling
I'll lose weight

fat,
rolls of fat,
skin,
filled with scars,
heart,
about to explode,
hurt,
i hurt,
everyone around me,
im hurt,
'cause i dont mean to,
yet i still do,
i look in the mirror,
disgust is allll i see,
fat, scars, pain,
a pile of rotted flesh,
trying to do the impossibe,
look and feel better.

friendship bracelets and long sleeves,
choking down rice cakes and diet coke,

pinning Victoria's Secret models to my wall and
keeping a tape measure at my bedside,

trying tips form Tumblr,
cold showers,
apple cider vinegar,
copious amounts of coffee
(black, obviously).

wondering why i'm shivering in the southern heat and
feeling proud of it anyway.

when i was 11
i spent an entire weekend pacing
around the backyard
pretending all i had to do was survive

on as little as possible.

living off pond water,
i chopped salads of dead leaves and
whisked red clay into something sweet.

i built a home of twigs and bed of mulch.
i let my body sink into the earth,
bones melting into roots and
skin into the ridges of the forest floor.

caught at the cross road of brittle blue nails and
softened angles,
all i knew was emptiness
and it felt like i was finally beautiful.

Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme

Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.