in a society where eating disorders are less of a concern and more of a trend
we dont compare grades anymore only cuts and scars on our wrists
everything is  political and you need to stay woke
in a society where my trauma is on display so people call it
woke

The shame gets to me, creeping
                               guilt is killing me slowly, ever so slowly.
                       Bigger, bigger                                   Purging the pain
                  Smaller, smaller,                                         I'm going insane.
              A ring is my net,                                       ******* a gun,
              Shoot me, I ask,                                                 Turning to dust.
                   Smaller to skinny,                             bones into nothing,
                                      I beg you to save me, for death is
                                       creeping slowly, ever so slowly,             
                                            ­            toward me.

a feeling i've fallen in love with.

a feeling that has grown comfortable.

a feeling, pardon the joke, that i can feed.

a gallon of water
and mint gum
makes me feel
more in control
than a blade ever did

Ana,

I've known you for a while,
And at first I was afraid.
I didn't know what you'd do
Or whether you could help me.

Now I don't see why
Everyone I know is so
Pressed about me
Being friends with you...

I don't know why
they don't like you.
They try to keep me away
From you and your help.

You're a kind person,
And you've helped me.
You make me happy.
You fix my problems.

I hope you can explain
Why people don't like you.

i miss my hair falling out
my eyes dragging me down
i miss not having anything but bile
my bones pulling to the earth
i miss the sweet feeling of being hollow

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.