"It's not that bad, I tastes good, I swear" It was cold, and bitter, and vile Yet I still ordered it Every Single Time Like a magical elixr Of momentary freedom From the wires of guilt Welded into my neural pathways Just enough- To not cause suspicion But not so much That I'd collapse Strong enough To make me jittery, Anxious, nauseated, But still incomparable To the unspeakable sin Of sustenance, So when I saw stars standing up, Or buckled over at the knees, And wondered why It was even worth it? I'd come to the same conclusion Every Single Time And it was this: It doesn't matter anyways Because I'll never Be able To stop.
Haven't had an iced americano in three months, if that means something to someone ;) Moral of the story: life's too short to not drink oatmilk lattes.
I miss the time when I actually enjoyed eating that burger you offered me last night. I miss when eating a pack of Cheetos wasnt one of my biggest fears in the entire world. I miss the times i was eating a healthy amount of food by the time i needed it. I miss the times my mind wasnt a calculator every single second of each day. I miss the time I could sleep at night without my stomach hurting, asking for at least a glass of water. I dont want to have a mental breakdown whenever i eat a chocolate. I wanna remember the taste of pizza again. I want to eat a whole donut by myself. I dont want my happiness to depend on the number of a scale. I wanna eat dinner again, something except a salad. I dont want to workout everyday. I want to finally feel happy without my stomach screaming. I want to stop. I want to eat.
i dont know if this is called an eating disorter, i just know that i cant do this anymore. its so hard fighting my own mind everyday.
110 The cursed number 110 In bone and blubber 110 The taste inescapable 110 My thoughts are nonsensical 110 Shrink it further 110 To be skinny I'd ****** 110 The burden of weight 110 All myself I hate.
Me ves comer y se te ilumia la cara, y preguntas cuánto llevo sin vomitar y no sé que decirte porque no quiero fallar, aunque lo haré o a ti, o a todos, o a mi.
No, mi cuerpo ya no se marea al levantarse, mi muñeca ya no puede ser rodeada por mi mano y las heridas de mis dedos, causadas por los ácidos de mi estómago, han desaparecido.
Pero de qué sirve cuando cada bocado es insoportable, cuando tú cabeza no tiene espacio para nada que no sean calorias. De qué sirve cuando te encuentras en el baño, arrodillada, lo más lejos del vater para no ceder, o delante del espejo encima de la báscula llorando porque la recuperación física no es la mental