Stop. Everyone stand still.
Don't move a muscle - not an inch.
Breathing: not preferable, but do as you must.
There! Stay like that. That's what we are after.
Hold in your stomach.
It must look perfect.
You don't look perfect.
Get out. Leave. Now.

I'll never forget the time
you laughed at me
when I told you I was
stupid for scratching at my face viciously,

leaving me with a scab
under the bags of my right eye.

I stood there crying as you laughed.

Who knew that would be
the start of my anxiety attacks.

you cringe,
as you look in the mirror.

you say a prayer,
hoping God can erase this hate.

you hate you.
how did we get here?

you try to hide it,
hide the many tears and the scars.

you hear people say "she is so beautiful, so bold, so carefree",
your skin crawls.

you try and hide,
be smaller,
be invisible.

but everyone can see,
they can smell it.

your body is aching,
from all the stares.

your soul is rotting,
from all the times self-love was promised, but never given.

you have an enemy,
this enemy is you,
it has always been you.

no matter
how hard
i try
i can't make my pain beautiful;
i can't make myself beautiful;
i can't make myself feel beautiful.

no matter
how hard
i try
i cannot convince myself that beauty
is a taste i enjoy on my tongue,
is a feeling i crave, that burning sensation
at the back of my throat,
on the back of my tongue

i cannot make an illness beautiful, for simply
it is not.
illnesses aren't beautiful, and they were never meant to be-
that's why people try to cure them.
in a world where beauty is the standard,
ugliness will not survive.
ironic, then, that illnesses are ugly
yet illnesses are becoming strategies
to achieving beauty

what an ugly concept.

concept: the more i *****, the skinnier i become
the more beautiful i am, right?
concept: the less i eat, the more i gain
concept: the thinspiration tag on tumblr has all of the
answers. so answer me this:
why am i so fragile? i feel my soul must be weaker
than the stick-thin bodies photographed for toxic aspirations;
surely they must snap like twigs whenever they fall...
i know the ease with which i break apart whenever i fall down

concept: i have friends and family that love me,
people who are attracted to me,
my friends' friends admire me, aspire to be like me
i should not be so insecure, so desperate to make myself skinnier,
more beautiful, more perfect.
bones are not the default of beauty.

bones are what survive beneath the ground when all else rots away;
these illnesses will have me rotting
before my bones can even finish growing.
there will be weeds and vines growing around my ribs, weaving
like a macabre masterpiece mounting the soil on which i've laid myself to rest
and my skeleton's skinless fingers, slender and spiraled into the ground,
will be the only thing about me that have ever had a grip.

lately i've been made up of broken sanity, loosely grasping
at the frayed edges of myself
as i come apart each night, again and again - my skeletal fingers
will grip this earth with a strength to rival my passion for nature
for while i will be dead, at least i will finally be
committed to something
i love.

what a shame that i'll never love who i am enough
to be committed to myself.

I hate my body. Okay, I said it. I look in my mirror and think how did this happen and why. I contemplate bad things. I do the bad things. The bad things don't work like I wanted them to. My body is still a bad thing. I am so ashamed. I can't even let my love look at me. I hate my body and what it has become. Now I try to do good things. If good things don't work, I do bad things to make the good things work now. Will my body ever be a good thing? I think walking in the door and staring at your reflection and breaking out in tears when you realize how you looked the whole day is enough to make one want to rid these bad things. But isn't the irony so that to rid the bad things one must do more? Bang. Slash. Swallow. Beep. This is me leaving. This is me leaving my hated body behind. This is me doing bad things to my bad body.

What a ******* *******
Thinking he's so high and mighty
Taking the day off just to sit on his ***
Stupid priveledged whitey
Refuses to see the favorable position he's in
Just likes to believe he is lower
To get pity from others and kin
Maybe he's just a **** blower
****, what a *******
Stupid as **** get outta my sight
You're about to get hit
And you know I'm right
Go to hell man
You don't deserve the **** you have
You're so pale, not tan
Not even smooth, no, not suave
I shouldn't have to stare at this dope
He better not get any nearer
I'm thinking of this while putting on soap
and staring into a mirror...

I know.
It's sad knowing that I love others more than I love myself.
I hate to see others in pain.
But when it comes to me
I'm fine.
I know.
Saying I'm fine is a girl's biggest lie. I know.
I am not fine
I hide all my agony in the words I'm fine.
Honestly, I hold in a lot.
When I'm upset, I really don't like to tell anyone.
Especially the person who made me that way.
No matter how much anyone asks,
The answer will always be "I'm fine."
Even if it's not true.
I know.
The truth may hurt for a little while,
But a lie hurts forever. I know.
That's what I tell all who I care about.
I know.
I care too much about people that don't give a **** about me.
I know.
If you care too much you are going to get a **** load of hurt.
I know if you never care you will never learn the life lesson.
I know.
I see it all,
Everyday.
I know
I try not to focus so **** much on needing someone,
And focus on being the one someone needs.
I know I am blind.
I know I'm afraid.
And it hurts that I can't be.
What everyone wants
Or that anyone needs
And it hurts that I can't be
What I want or what I need
Because I'm not enough
I won't be enough
And I'll never be close to enough
And I'm just so **** tired.
But guess what?
I'm fine.