I want to remember
what it feels like
to see my bones
reaching the sky
while i'm stuck in
this rotten pit bottom.

Why is it that when you're sick enough.
Recovery feels like the sickness and the relapses feel like recovery?

Come a little closer and you will soon see
Run your fingers along the cracked parts of me

The cracks etch my thighs, hips, and *******
Each crevice: white, purple, and ruby red

What once was flat and smooth has changed
Bulges and ripples: new landscape

Voices continue to point my flaws out to me
The mirror screams failure; I choose recovery

Previously, these porcelain walls were kept neat
Prim and polished on the inside – pink squeaky clean

Now, this doll is filled with laughter and cheesecake
But the cracks in my mask are all on display

He tells me he loves every part of me
And stretched skin is a part of my story

But I cannot tell if I’m breaking my “perfect” shell
Or if I want to go back to my personal hell

Destruction looks like a statue
and i'm here
staring at it
with the eyes of a child
when they see a brand new toy
even when they own it already.

And then
you look at yourself in the mirror
for the third time
and say:
it smells like ***** still.

I've always hated math, yet numbers take control
The number on the scale, if I reach a goal
I don't really eat food, it's just a number now
It all happens so fast, I just don't know how
Measuring and counting, tracking everything
Feeling satisfaction, instead of suffering
Pain turns to success, that number coming down
Wreaking havoc, turning your life around
Nothing really matters, all I want is bones
But everything's inside, and no one has to know
What starts off as a simple, 2 or 3 pounds
Can leave your pile of bones, rotting in the ground

She started doing exercises so she could be stretchy.
So she could be ****.

She started putting on makeup so she could be pretty.
So she could be perfect.

She started starving herself so she could be thinner.
So she could be a winner.

She started cutting so she could they'd all notice her.
So she'd with her demons concur.

She hang herself so she wasn't in the way.
So she didn't have to stay.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Let the thick smoke cool before you take it into your lungs.
Repeat until everything goes away...

Or until you're too dizzy to stand.
Something someone says reminds you of something you tried to forget, so you pretend to be enthusiastic about the drinking games.
You pour your shots a little higher than everyone else's.
Repeat until everything goes away...

Or until you're trying to ***** silently.
Tell them it's food poisoning. They know it's not.
Watch their eyebrows curve with pity and concern.
Don't tell them you're trying to disappear.
Repeat until everything goes away.

I blame it on my period, but it's my own lack of self control
I'm trying to get better, so it should start getting easier, shouldn't it?
But that's not how it works, no, not at all.
You still spend every single day consuming calories and wanting to explode.
You may not explode as often any more, but you still loosen your cannons daily.
You try to get buy with just one meal, but that turns into a full fledged feast.
You eat and you eat until you can't anymore, then goto the toilet and let some bombs explode.
But since you're getting better, you don't use up all of your ammo
You leave it hidden away, adding on some extra armor.
Then you wake up, see what all the violence caused you to gain
And you just feel like **** because you no longer come out on top every day.
You're losing battles left and right; and the saddest thing is, you're losing to your own mind.