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cleo Jun 2017
‪uh oh
i'm hearing voices again ‬
‪uh oh
it's getting bad again ‬
‪she won't leave me alone ‬
‪constant chattering in my ear ‬
‪she won't let it go ‬
‪there's too much of me already ‬
‪it shouldn't be this way ‬
‪good girls stay quiet and out of sight ‬
‪the best girls cease to exist at all ‬
‪don't worry though i'm on my way out
almost there
i'm so close i could TASTE IT  ‬
‪(that is ‪if i remembered how to)
All the things we do,
For illness,
To make ourselves worse;
It fuels the pain,
But we know we're just going back again.

What's the use?
Why not lose when there's
Nothing left
To win?
We give in,
Just so that this nothingness can win.

It's fine,
You're going to survive,
But do you completely want to?
Maybe you can't decide,
So instead you hide it inside.

You're told to get better,
But what does that mean?
It means you stop acting,
You get over it eventually.
Really?
Maybe if you're careful;
Find a way to fix yourself;
Make sure you don't break again.

Now move forward,
It's been a few years,
That's what everyone thinks.
You're all good now,
Even you believe,
At last you can do anything
-except what you were doing,
That is.
Avoid it like the plague,
To try to stay safe,
Although really you try creeping back,
Just to catch a glimpse of something
You know you shouldn't be looking at.

Then you wonder
About sending yourself back:
To the days in Hell,
The fight for escape,
Waiting for it to be over,
To be left alone.
**** the actions first,
Then learn how to cope
Without what you were destroying yourself with.

You're fine for now,
At least you guess you are,
Only you're surrounded by sorrow,
The misery with bouts of
Alright, just great.
But darkness lurks around the corner,
So will you follow,
Or do what you're supposed to be continuing with?

You want control,
Part of you wants to feel something,
Other than these emotions,
To stop hearing these thoughts,
And press stop on the memories,
Because with the present it hurts you,
Damaging - like what doesn't exist.

One time, go on:
Repeat like you used to,
What's the reason not to
When you just feel like you're lacking
Some of what you need?
And what is that?
The truth, surrender,
A cease to all this,
Someone else to leave?

You know it will push you somewhere,
Into a harsh reality
But one you hope that might be different,
From the one that pains you,
Even if you'll be guilty.
You'll have the satisfaction
Of finally
Doing something.
Again. You said never again,
But that wasn't true,
Did you even mean that?
You wonder as you retake
Your past baleful steps.

It doesn't own the same reasons
This time.
You just want to prove your
Destructive existence to yourself,
Even though you miss your
Dissociation from reality.
Maybe because if you do it,
It means you're not one hundred percent,
Just don't let anyone know,
Why should it harm anyone,
Except you because that's the whole issue?

It's okay though,
You've figured it out,
Like you always knew,
You were only kidding yourself,
You know you'd have to live
With the unhelpful effects,
It doesn't need to be any harder,
Than it already is.
certifiednutcase Jun 2017
The number on the scale
Becomes very real.
When food becomes kilojoules
And
Cravings become nil.

The number on the scale
Shouldn't be like a rusty nail.
Causing a wound
that never seems to heal,
that spreads till you're ill.

The number on the scale
is now fear.
For somehow worth is
Equals to
The number on the scale.

The number on the scale
Haunts till
The number on the scale
Decreases to
The (smaller) Number on the scale.
Kon Grin Jun 2017
A trio of compound realms I own:
A smile, a rainbow and unknown.
May I bake them? Fetch a pie
Of fruitful colours? Why
Won't it abound with the sky?

A trio of compound selves I bear.
Each dwells without and within.
April 19, 2017
J Jun 2017
I am not a slave to cliches
Or to the chemicals
That bind my skin
To my bed frame
I am not a slave
To the have-beens
Or to TV dinners
halfway cooked
Eaten anyway
because I counted the calories
Already
I am not a slave
To the pain of waking up
In a foggy room
Where I cannot see the floor
I am not a slave
To myself
Anymore
cleo Jun 2017
sometimes it's hard
just to pick up a fork.
i find myself too weak, arms too limp.
excuses
upon
excuses
piled like a house of cards,
one breeze and i’ll blow away with it.
you won’t be able to catch me,
to stop me,
i can’t even do that myself.

my heart is heavy,
stomach empty,
i still struggle to eat daily but i’m trying.
i do it just to spite those voices in my head  
when i should be doing it for me, but
it’s hard to block them out  
when they sound a lot like my mother.

sometimes it’s hard
just being alive,
hard to get out of bed when
the weight of the world is pressing down on you.
hard not wanting to die
when the sweet release of these demons is all you find yourself
thinking about,
dreaming about anymore.
dreams of floating through the sky
like the clouds passing;
i’m jealous of the way they hang there, gracefully.
i want to be just like them but
i can’t trust myself not to
fall
back
down
to earth.
i’ve done it too many times before.

i’ve got to remind myself that
recovery takes time.
i’ll never unlearn the calories in a raspberry
but at least now i can drink a glass of orange juice
without shedding a single tear.
sure it’s laced with *****
but don’t worry. it’s not a problem
it’s a coping method,
one you might not approve of but one that works, see
over time the scars on my arms have faded.
heart less heavy,
stomach still empty.
well, not completely empty.
but that’s progress right?
V Jun 2017
Fat
Fat, fat, fat.
All I see is fat.
I am the "chunkiest", the "chubbiest", the "roundest" and the "ugly pig".
I might as well be a rat, the biggest of the big.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "just right", "average", "normal" or "perfect size."
They lie every single time, and hell, just 'like that'.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "too skinny!", "I wish I looked like you", "wow! Size zero jeans?!" and "underweight".
Yet, I refuse to touch this cold, stocked plate.

Fat, fat, fat,
All I see is fat.
I am "awful", "dying", Miss "eat something" and "throne of bones".
Yet, this body will never be my souls rightful home.

Fat, fat, fat.
All I ever will be is fat.
Even in a long gown and stuck to the end of an I.V pole,
With doctors and psychatrists and loved ones crying and begging me to just "recover, please come home!"

I am still fat.


The hospital bed is empty,
My bed is left untouched,
There is a silence as the wearers in black all sob and stare silently at the body in the ground.
Devasted and hushed...

I see them, but can no longer speak.
No longer able to feel, no longer live,
Forced to watch time pass and hearts mourn...
Their days now heartbroken and bleak.

My  best friend doesn't speak, she now sits alone,
My mother sobs every night, family reminded
so often of my presence,
The one who secrelty loved me has loved no more,
Even my pets still wait outside my door.

Those who knew me, only can remember me in the things left behind,
Even the sun itself rarely shines.


Dead, lost, gone.
I am no longer fat,
But I also no longer- belong.
Recovery is worth it. <3
Allyson Walsh May 2017
she holds my hand,
and whispers at my reflection,
then hollows out
my insides
For myself

Trying to kick mia out.
Lot May 2017
Every queen must have a throne,
but mine is cheap and flimsy.
A plastic chair made in China,
worth less than a dollar,
swaying under my weight.
To stay from falling,
whenever I sit,
I keep myself light and fit.
I stay perched in reticence,
balancing the paper crown
upon my jaded head.
As tendrils of brown hair,
fall to the floor in plain.
Hands and feet crossed,
bound in leather and chains.
Try not to be your own worst enemy.
unnamed May 2017
Spent days trying to grow my brain
And shrink my waist.
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