Its a big deep breath.
a gasp
a chance
a risk.
Its an exhale.
a sigh
a relief
a release.
It feels so good while its happening
and nothing could penetrate my euphoria

until,
inevitably,
I burst it from the inside out.

The moment makes me forget–
I can believe I am silky and seamless
for a moment I am an eel and I can
glide–
its as simple as that.

But when I remember them,
my unmistakable talons,
they will tear my delicate bubble to shreds

Frantically I try to rebuild,
to put the pieces back together
before I let in the whispers,
but it is too late and I shiver in the cold.
The whispers are so cold.
so cold.

They climb and claw their way into my ears

I wish I could lay there under the weight of the whispers
and say the fault belongs to someone else,
but the longer I lay there,
the quicker I realize
the whispers come from my mouth

what a life it is
to live in love
with an ideal self.
to be in love with one
who doesn't exist,
not even in fiction,
only in the realm of your mind.
what a life it is
to look in the mirror
and feel your soul shatter
but when you look away,
you can pretend you are
the version of you that you see in your head.
I'm not the only one. I know it.
Biographers say that Sylvia Plath was in love with her dream self, encompassed in a strange egotistical fantasy.
I live in that same fantasy.
How do I make fantasy me
the real me?

The other day, as my tears weren't drying,
I wrote   'stop hating yourself'
in hope, on my left arm.

I carried it round with me the next day,
hidden under clothing and smiles
praying the words would sink in.

That black ink would slide under
Subcutaneous layers; deep within marrow
Sparkling kindle within.

A week later there was no trace to be found
of those words or that false hope.

Those permanent marker promises
which I can't say I broke,
because I never made them in the first place.

All I want
today
is to give up.

I want to stop eating.
I want to stop thinking.
I want to stand in the snow
and let my body freeze
until I've burned off every last calorie
I want to run until I puke.
Then run more.
Until the moment comes that I black out
Until that empty moment
of empty relief
comes to me
even if it's only a moment.
I just want to be free.

Because I'm living in a personal hell
most days lately I don't even know myself
I can't look in the mirror without disgust
I freaking hate my stinking guts.

I've never hated it so much
that I'd rather stay inside.
I've never been so ashamed
that all I wanted to do is hide.

But today that's where I am.

The truth about my recovery?
I lied
I told the truth
I was better.
So much better
a different person
truly, really,
not the me that was dying to die a year previous.
for six years the monsters consumed me
It starts so subtle.
She’s skinnier.
‘No I’m on a diet’
‘I’m a size 0’
your best friend skips lunches.
slowly, surely, the monster slips into your head.
your nightmares are living
compulsions start.
too young.
don’t eat in front of people.
one granola bar will get you through practice until home.
and all the comments egging you on.
‘you aren’t skinny enough for that..’
‘but if you eat salad all summer’
Soon you can’t look at yourself.
Soon the Monster of self hatred turns you to more
because the diets aren’t enough
so spring break after a bowl of corn chips
you close the bathroom door
and the porcelain becomes your ally.
friends may know.
but you can be sneaky.
after all, how else would you manage your size?
Eventually it isn’t enough, you want quicker results.
And the monsters of self hatred are eating you up.
you’ve grown now of course.
pushed away friends who knew who wanted you to get help.
Because this Monster, This darkness in your mind,
your only friend.
No more food.
leave crumbs and a buttered kife.
anything eaten, behind the bathroom door.
And very soon
The blades come out to play.
So intriguing how easy it is.
and how simple to hide.
What an easy release.
17 and 110 lbs, covered in scars on her hips.
I did get help.
I went to therapy.
I loved it.
I didn’t just change these acts
I changed myself.
But I wasn’t better, I was anxious
to be done with it
to be set free.
So I stopped going.
when I wasn't totally ready.
I thought I was happy..
But is that why I relapsed?
It was only once.
But is that why I still find myself depressed?
Sometimes suicidal?
Is it my fault?
It’s usually my fault so I can see how it would be.
I lied.
That’s the truth.
And
I
Don’t
Know.
But I do know
this recovery is a continuous fight.
And I just wonder
Where am I now?

I hate people who trivialize any sadness.
If they're suffering, why should they be mocked?
You answer for me.
Don't tell me they're implying
They're suffering is greater than others
Or that they're intensifying
The flighting emotion that need not be exaggerated
Because you don't known their pain,
Get an insight to their thought,
Accept their pain into yourself--
Yes you have suffered, none can deny that
But if you don't respect the man
Comparatively weaker, or sound
How can anyone respect your position?
You are a parasite,
Lost in the host
You feed off sadness
You know it's a drought
Yet you remain cynical
So simple in your name.
Your life is filled with hollow anguish
You'll never learn in time

And in my dread
I know you are me...

she spent so much time looking in the mirror
that she forgot what she looked like