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Tear, tear, tear.
Spend classes tearing paper into tiny bits.
Why do I do it?
(Tearing until my fingers hurt.)

Count, count, count.
Almost run into people every few minutes.
Why do I do it?
(Count my bones whenever I can.)
(Count the steps on the stairs when I ran.)
(Count the steps I take and how many breaths I draw.)

I am aware that everyone sees me,
counting and tearing and restarting,
and I don't want to stop even though it's not with a degree of panic.

Check, check, check.
Check so many things again and again,
but not the things that are really important.
(Check that everything's not changing or if it is.)
2154 September 25 2018

maybe using distractions so i won't feel as hungry lol
her skin is jaundiced, quite like the color of the sky before a storm
if you look at her long enough you can almost smell the petrichor on her skin.
her ribs are not unlike the rungs of a ladder
(climb if you dare, but the fall is a long one with no end in sight).
delicate fingers have been burned at the touch of acid and bones have been made brittle.
her nails: jagged, each impacted with crescent moons of soil.
the digging is ceaseless.
she is searching for something she will never find, for something that never was
yet it beacons like a lighthouse on the horizon
a sign of safety but blinding if you sneak a closer look.
she slinks along the edge of her unremitting chasm,
dancing with the devil throughout the evening,
but the night draws on and she comes dangerously close to stepping on his toes.
her rhythm is all wrong, the metronome from above is feeding her lies,
but she is greedy and devours them all.
the gnawing inside her returns.
the gnawing inside her takes over,
her eyes begin to wilt as the burden of seeing only in grey engulfs them.
to sleep she goes under the spell of the guilt washing over her like the sweet, sticky air of the summer.
And suffering
And evaporated tears
And razor blades
And laxative teas
And skinny jeans
And diet pills
And angry words
And impulsive decisions
And lies
And bleeding lines
And swollen wrists
And puffy eyes
And long sleeves
And stay-in-bed-all-day days
And avoid-the-crowd-for-days days
And won’t-mind-getting-hit-by-a-car days
And bitten tongues
And sad songs
And bleach shots
And fake Instagram posts
And living through YouTube videos
And fasting
And failing
And then no longer caring
And feeling like it’s all over
And then doing it all over,
All / Over /Again
Trigger warning... This poem is to anyone who has ever been through or is going through any of these things. I know your pain. Although I’ve made a major recovery (anxiety/anorexia/derealization/ depersonalization/panic disorder) and am always getting better, sometimes certain things haunt me. My PM box is always open to those in need of a listening ear or a friend.
Stay strong xx
I was a small fat child
in a fibro house.
Paint peeling
asbestos ridden.
The small green fence outside had no front gates
they’d fallen off.
Bricks so many bricks
rusty iron
and screams fucking horrible screaming.
Day in and day out
terrible crying
and I hid
I retreated
to books
to the internet
to my
to fantasy
and here I remain
stuck in fantasy
trying to escape
the violence
bred into my family
how thin is blood
compared to rage.
Crack was frequent,
Pot more so.
I stole, I lied, and I took drugs
at 13, I stayed up a week after snorting
powder I found in a baggie on the floor.

I’m a fat child scared
crying in the corner
he comes in telling me not to cry
that i’m overreacting
blood pours from his hands
and now reminded of the future
the visions of me sitting blood ridden.
The bloodletting, to purify me.
Punching the stairs till my bones crumbled.
It all makes sense
I emulate him.
the mother poisoning her child
the smells of cooking choke my throat
what was food to stoners
snacks and bullshit meals
raw onion tears.

The sugar the snacks the munchies
what a life to live
i ripped that fat from me
tore it side from side
i purged myself clean of their sin
and still I fall back to it
but with fingers in throat I salute
salute to the idea I’d rather die then
end up like them
Eleanor 6d
It’s like I’m sitting, watching a love scene in a movie where teens are driving and swimming and laughing and I'm immersed and enjoying it, but then the harsh, violently, fluorescent lights behind me turn on and the director yells “Cut!” and my brain is hijacked by a new reality of fake, lonely, nothingness.
That is depression.
Lost 6d
I miss you
Over 100mg a day
You made
my heart race

I miss you
The way you
Made me scratch
at my skin
and my scalp
Until there was blood
Under my fingernails

I miss you
Dropping 35lbs with you
Made me feel
So pretty
That I stopped eating
For days
And started purging
The food from my empty
Shrunken stomach
In public restrooms
With plastic spoons

I miss you
I didn’t sleep alone
When I had you
You sat on my chest
And wrapped my hands
Into white-knuckled
Clenched fists
You held me tighter
With each shallow
Painful breath

I miss you
My now steadied limbs
Don’t feel complete
In the absence of
Your gentle rattle
I want you to make
My bones dance again

I miss you
Joints shuddering
In aching pain
From you
Winding them up
So tight
I wish you could
Be here again
To contract
Every muscle
In my starved
Depleted body

I miss you
We would sit
On the bathroom
Counter together
And scrutinize
My yellowed skin
Picking and prodding
At every imperfection
For hours
Leaving scabs
And scales
Littering my
New thin face

I miss you
I remember fondly
The time we spent
Together laying
Face-down on
My kitchen floor
The tingly buzz
You filled me with
Every time I fainted
Pleasantly twinkling
Across my body

I miss you
At 4am
The time we
Used to stay
Up until
Every night
Staring at a wall
In my dimly lit room
Hours passing
Without me
Even noticing

I miss you
I know you hurt me
But I want you back
Every day
I miss how you made
Every moment hurt
And now I spend
All my time
Craving that pain

I miss you
I want you
To wreak havoc
All over again
Through my
Willing body
Swallowing doses
Of prescribed self harm
Each morning
I’m so horribly
Painless without you
CONTENT WARNING: Descriptions of disordered eating and bulimia
Tyler Smiley Sep 8
eat-ing dis-or-der
/ēdiNG diˈsôrdər/
1. Waking up every single morning with the same thoughts you’ve had for the past 9 months. How flat will I look today? Are my ribs poking out any further? Does my spine look any more sickly than before?
2. Weighing yourself before you go to the bathroom. Then after you go to the bathroom. Proceeding on and on throughout the day, as followed.
3. Being so hungry, you’re simply not hungry anymore. More so, just exhausted. (Being exhausted is a good thing, because that’s when you can finally fall asleep. That way your mind doesn’t have to keep nagging you about the hunger pains you feel in your stomach.)
4. Wearing 2 sweatshirts & 2 pairs of socks under 3 blankets, yet still feeling the icy pain running through your veins. You try anything to stay warm. Coffee helps, but only for a few minutes. Steaming hot showers are nice for the time being, but stepping out into the cold air, feeling your already brittle hair turn into shards...it’s hell. (Ironic, right?)
5. Not being able to walk past a mirror without pulling up your shirt to check your stomach for the 20th time today. I’m not vain, trust me. Far, far from it. One of the last things I’m capable of feeling right now is love towards myself.
6. Longing for a way out. Laying on your bed in the darkness, staring at the ceiling, just wishing that there was a fucking off switch to all of this. Every goddamn morning to every goddamn night. You know what you’re doing is wrong, but at this point you don’t know who you’d be without it. That voice, I mean. That voice that never goes silent, even when you politely beg with tears brimming at the eyes. You try so hard to push it away, and to remember a time in your life when you were “normal”. When you could wake up and actually enjoy breakfast. It was your favorite meal of the day.

Now, you can’t even fathom a “favorite meal”. The empty plate, the clean spoon, the untouched napkin. Everything except the food- which is now harrowingly the perfect vision of your “favorite meal”.
cleo Jan 22
she's inside me
sitting in the back of my throat
i can feel her presence there
feel her beckoning me
i reach my hand out to take hers but
she's always just out of reach

all she brings is pain
i don't even know her name
but i love her anyway
925 Sep 6
These nights I have more trouble sleeping
My eyes ache and my stomach growls
In disappointment
Another meal to many
Another meal to little
My teeth are clamped shut
Painfully almost.
I have to remind myself I'm safe
I go through the protocol
But these days I have more trouble sleeping
My eyes open and see only you and they ache when I try to stitch them shut.
Eating before bed is not a good idea, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Warning for eating disorder mention.  Also slight gore I guess? Idk stay safe
Voices in my head constantly tell me I'm not enough, gorgeous enough, thin enough.
They tell me I should change who I am because I won't be loved looking rough.
They tell me I should have a smaller nose, smaller thighs, smaller everything.
They say "you're prettiest friends are your thinner ones. If you wanna be like them then stop eating every single little thing."
I'm disgusting, they say. I'm unworthy of love and I'll never find it.
The voices are cruel. They never let up. They tell me "All of your thin friends get the guys attention, you don't because you're ugly and fat."
"They never give you a second thought because you're too big." They spat.
I know I'm ugly and fat. I'm not thin. My mind is a toxic place so I'm giving up and giving in.
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