These urges are getting stronger,
Becoming harder and harder to fight.
I thought I was strong,
But I am weak
I'm craving the pain,
The blood.
I thought I was better
But this overwhelming wave
Of sadness
Is back in full force
And I'm addicted to the pain
Giving in to the urges is inevitable
It's easier this way.

... to say you're

S O R R Y

even if you

*REALLY ARE?

All it took was one look
One memory
One flashback
One feeling
I'm back again
I remember it all.
The sadness
The irritability
The feeling of worthlessness
The feeling of impending death
The breakdown...
I'm back again.
And this time may be the last.

My friend Ana has many followers.
She feeds us promises and fills our dreams
when we cannot, will not, sate the cries
of our bodies because those are easy to hush
during the din of day, but not in the void,
night when

my friend Ana comes through a glowing
screen in the form of thigh gaps, community forum posts,
and calorie counting apps where our intake dwindles,
anticipating the moment we take in the waist of  our skirts
so maybe that boy with the blue-jean eyes notices
our size 0 because on a scale of 1 to 10, we don’t fit.

My friend Ana remains forever in our minds,
teaching us to listen to our inner strength as muscle tone
ebbs, seething when we reach for some bread, but loving
the sweat-drenched skin as we run nowhere on a treadmill that we believe leads to a salvation as perfect as the symmetry of ribs—

of cheekbones that jut out from a thin and beautiful face
which smiles at muted murmurs and falls as I look
in the mirror at bodies shaped so divine, you might see
premature grace because
Ana never dies.

12 dec: yesterday,
he sat behind me, crying. his eyes and were puffy and red and I asked him if he was all right but he said
nothing. it's predictable, it's overlookable.
I thought God, God, god,
but he's non, non,
non-denominational.
how pretentious.
i "use the lord's name in vain" because i've accepted my vanity, learned to cope by belittling myself in the dark.

there was a certain serenity in his chaotic demeanor, if that's possible.
he wrote with such affinity, such pressure. abundant was the adrenaline and passion which coursed through the veins in his forearms as he scribbled.
something's...different.
he's wearing glasses. are they his father's? I considered the prospect because I thought he might have asked to borrow them to hide his tears.
"I didn't know you wore glasses,"
(never in three years).
"I got them yesterday."