i once wished i was made of
sharp hipbones and tainted glass,
that my wrists were tiny fragile things,
with fingers that looked like spider legs
covered in too large rings.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
cigarette smoke and black coffee.
that my body could look like a model in a magazine.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
sugar free jello and *****,
so that my body could be small and dainty-
with a hunger that could only be quenched
by photographs of unknown girls i envied.

no one told me how much it hurt.

i once wished i was made of
rotten flesh and bone,
if i couldn't be small-
i had no worth at all.

no one told me how much it hurt.

Eating disorders are never romantic.

Sometimes, I dream of food:

Burgers, cakes, fries set out in a pan of grease that's deep enough to swim in—

I get lost in it. I eat and eat and push my blue-tinted fingertips into layers of frosting and cream, letting chocolate bliss wash over me like a baptism.

Then I wake up.

Guilt rips into my bones, and I feel a sick sense of relief.

I clutch my aching stomach, run my palms against the protrusions of my hips.

I lick my lips and swear that I could taste honey and brown sugar, and for a moment I lay in bed watching dots in my vision swirl away into the unknown.

My feet are as cold as the rest of my body, and I think for a second how nice it would be to wake up warm.

How would it feel to turn over and see a lover sleeping next to me? I don't know. I've never known, but I like to imagine.

For breakfast, an egg (75) with plain toast (95) and tea (5).

Round up. Always round-up. I don't finish. I never finish. I'll repent if I do.

Waking up is cracking joints and a tight jaw. The only thing to comfort me is hot bitter water and hope in between numbers. Always numbers.

I catch my reflection in the door of my microwave. I turn away.

Sometimes, I dream of food.

On other days, I wish I couldn't dream at all.

Counting... Always... Counting.

A cup of herbal tea, maybe with some sugar.
If I feel up to it.

Maybe some soup, grilled cheese.
If I can stomach it.

Dinner. Whatever mom makes.
My only supervised meal.

Tired, all day... Every day.
Drowning in college papers.

The curves I worked so hard to get back...
Well. They're nearly gone.

Protruding hip bones,
Protruding collar bones,
Boney fingers,
Pale skin,
Fantastic figure and pretty ribs,
Cold toes and bad circulation.

Heart murmurs... Shaky breathing... Migraines... Exhaustion... Confusion... Lethargy... Weight loss

Shaking, Shaking, Shaking...
Shivering?

Gotta go make a cuppa, warm up a bit.

But... what's left for me to be healthy for, anyway?

I'll take a bath to warm up instead






Probably.

beloved you are
gentle soft pillows
filled with feathers
that itch at my skin

beloved you are
sobbing on shoulders
acid on tongue
begging for love
that I've never known

beloved you are
the beat of water
the shower head
pearly tears fall down

beloved you are
broken like glass
an edged smile
at days of the end

beloved you are
chaining me here
clutching at nails
like knives in my hand

haha
**** yov.
you know it triggers me
and im not doing so well right now




so tempted to go
on one ice coffee a day right now

dontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothat­dontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothatdontdothat

but­ i wanna.

Laying alone, empty in my stomach  but full of the tiredness i feel everyday, and i say HEY, i'm starving to the thousand of pixels that is my google docs which whispers back  “But that's okay, less of body makes me safe, less of fat, makes me proud, cause you all want to look alike, cause you all would want to be that tough to get used to being hungry all the  time, to all day long and all night long feel exceptional, in control, and if the hunger is the price,
that's okay,”

Yeah… I can starve.