Write a lament on the fake bathroom tile,
where you waste your father's hard earned money.

As you throw it up in disgrace of your body
and throw your hunger right back in his face,
tell him he's not done enough for his family.

Watch where the truth gets you when you're not allowed to lie.

~ A.M, F.H.

how can the burn of bile
make me fearful
yet satisfied
i will remain in denial
that i prefer illness
over bliss

I binged today. Normally I'd say, "it's okay."
but the truth is that it's not
I wish it weren't so hard to stop, but I have a disorder
One that many people just don't understand.

It's like I have a hole I can't fill inside of me
one that keeps telling me I need to eat more
"You're not full yet, eat this, eat that!" My stomach tricks me
Until it doesn't and I feel the consequences of my actions.

If only I could stop myself.
The people who think it's as easy as telling yourself no are wrong
I spend money on food that I think will help me,
try to create a new habit called "eating healthy."

My disorder just laughs at this.
Because it knows what I'll do the next time I'm feeling anything
I'll go order a McDonalds number 3 large,
or go to the grocery and fill up my cart.

I'll get home and eat it too quickly til I can't move anymore
Then cry and feel angry that I'm too afraid to throw it up.

last time i fell in love
i puked my guts out
trying to contort myself into
someone i never should've been
im different now
stronger,
smarter,
better

im falling in love again
i think im not sure
things have been so twisted for me
im not really sure what love is
but i hope you're good to me
it'd be nice to hold your hand again

faux leather cracking, mauve in between
soft swoosh and wheels creaking
14 minutes and 38 seconds
your back stiffening, careful not to lean
too far back, in case the couch swallows you

why would you put such a small picture
in such a large frame? a sigh
you can’t run away from your anxiety attacks
you know

I know.

this is nothing like the movies
the bathroom is out of order
and there are barely any notes
on her clipboard
45 minutes and 22 seconds
let me know if the sadness gets worse, alright?

alright.

a child is gagging in the waiting room
you rush out without the copay
but you’ll be back again, soon.

It’s the season of sickness.
The ruminant roars,
disarms me with hunger,
Feeds me

poison, contagious
violence; ****** of my
Control, spiller of
my Secret:

‘I am gross.’
Bathroom lights stare at me,
Toilet flushes betray my ears.
Only Courage,

Hanging on
the edge of a lash, leaking
with every pause of breath,
can save me.

Bugs are crawling all over my hands; yet they're the kind only I can feel and see -
the germs I visualise as cockroaches covering everything around me.
A 3rd change of clothes in 5 hours to protect myself against their power to bring me harm,
my umpteenth hand wash trying to get rid of them; my brain turbulent with alarm.

My head is noisy; full of chaotic sadness and voices,
peculiar images and blurry characters are all I can see - not by choice.
I cannot sleep or think let alone live,
waiting for The End; I went mad with the battle so determinative.

Sitting on the shower floor
with the water raining down on me more and more.
A map of water induced wrinkles trace my skin as if by disguise,
with a river I cannot stop running from my eyes;
intoxicated with madness, these voices I need to **** -
so with a bottle of ***** I wash down a pretty little pill.

Tonight I lay with just my teddy to hold dear; loneliness creeping in - no doubt,
feeling like a child who just wants to be loved and cared about,
wishing to be protected from the monsters inside my head
as I bury myself under my covers and cry myself to sleep in bed.

I wake in the morning and dread the day ahead,
it would be much easier if I could go back to sleep instead.
It is better than the torture of my disorder;
the voices in my head don't ask me things nicely - they're always an order.

My fear of vomiting is detrimental,
so the acts that I carry out are fundamental.
I do not leave the house; germs could get on my hands,
I always find an excuse for not participating in my friend's plans.
My hands are red raw and sore
from the excessive scrubbing; it's become a chore.
I have to put sanitiser around my mouth too,
otherwise my mind goes crazy - unfortunately that's true.

When exposed to a vomiting bug,
I completely stop eating and take an anti-bacterial drug.
I count down forty eight hours
before I can eat again; this is the extent of the phobia's powers.

When somebody mentions they feel unwell,
I avoid them like the plague and it feels like I'm in hell.

I think of the future and of the children I desire,
but the idea of germs and sickness around them is a taunt so dire.

I worry about vomiting every single day;
causing panic attacks and mental breakdowns - I want to run away.

People laugh at such a "silly" terror,
but for me it's a life-changing and deleterious horror.

I wasn't late
But I may as well be
All the seats are taken
I've been dragging my wheels
Over strangers' feet
I'm too exausted to apologise
Too stressed to take notice
I am close to tears
Hot and discombobulated
I'd hoped for tables
But I'm jammed against the door
By football fans
And teens on daytrips
Pressing against my back, my thighs
Hot breath and perfume wafting
Hands accidentally stroking
A lady's hand
And a sudden jolt within
Tips my stomach
It feels acidic
I've dreamt about this, before
Always afraid that nausea
Will arise during the worst times
So of course it tends to
And this trip is no different
Heat prickles my chest and my hands
No room to reach for the phone
To ring mum
To escape for time alone
But instead my throat constricts
I know I'm not sick
With a virus or bad food
But regardless something stirs
A grimace forms
A familiar thought
Of terror
A fear of what?
But my own body failing
Tumbling over an unsuspecting crowd
The journey is short enough
But couldn't be any longer