you noticed that his room was becoming messy.
"lazy."
you noticed that he had stopped showering.
"disgusting."
you noticed that he had started talking less.
"he's just going through a phase."

but you never noticed how his short sleeves turned into baggy hoodies.
you never noticed that he had stopped eating.
you never noticed that the happy little boy you used to have was leaving.

you never noticed it was getting bad
until it was almost too late

Gargantuan slack-jawed
hunchbacked
creature pours itself over the seams of its dresses and kills flowers as it
drags pale soles across the eggshells
littering the ground.

We must starve it;
We must **** it;
When it looks in the mirror it cracks it.

Then heinous beast
no more shall feast
and emaciated it shall become.
A shell of a thing, a carcass in fact,
the meat falls off the bone,
but its brain is still intact.

Poor thing.
Warped thing.
You wouldn’t think she’s human,
this thing.

merrily through this world we go
purging in every toilet bowl

i yearn for control,
take it into my own hands.
i control the lack of food,
let only my own metal draw red.
‘why would someone do that to themselves?’
i truly don’t understand their lack of understanding,
for it is oh so simple.
there’s no choice.
when the thoughts in your head grow too loud,
they break out,
morph into a multitude of monsters.
whether it be my blade - my oldest friend - or the scale, a newer addition.

surely i have developed Stockholm syndrome,
how else do you make sense of the
comfort, peace, and familiarity
found with my monsters?
thy blade only does showcases my deterioration, it in itself is of no real harm.
that, i must tell myself.

my monsters mean well, surely.

they only mean to help.
i’m begging for the next
“u good?”,
because maybe this time,
i’ll have the courage for honestly.
maybe this time,
my thought may finally
lose.

a long shot,
i’m aware.
but a shots better than a cut any day,
so much nicer,
quicker and simpler.
what a way to go out,
stain the floor forevermore.
really it’s a question of what hue
will coat it for eternity.
royal, majestic maroon,
or busy mush
from deep within my “brain”.
miss having one of those.

there is nothing poetic about the way i take up space

I wonder if I will let myself eat cake on my birthday?
I don’t want 25 to be the year that I waste away.


Every sprinkle

is a number,

every morsel

fuels my hunger.


In the mirror,
stands my executioner.

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.