There isn't much left.
That's the way it is sometimes.
You plan and plan
for the day
when there won't be any,
and yet you're still surprised
when there isn't much left
in the end.

My days are not like seven fat cows
or seven skinny ones.
My days are like veal.
They're slaughtered young,
and at night I feast upon them.

Some nights I can sleep contentedly afterwards..
And others,
I lay awake unable to dream at all.

Guilt keeps me awake.
I've become a kosher butcher of time!
Often my own.

That's the way it is sometimes.
There isn't much left.
So I plan and plan
trying to postpone the day
when there won't be any.

Getting thinner and thinner
and skinner and *****
and gloomier and weaker,
unhappier and paler,
depressed more and crazier
and messed, death-obsessed
and stripped to the ribs 
and scarer and thinner
and lighter and paler,
less pretty, enslaved and
less happy, not happy,
Auschwitz-like, so horrid
self-killing, deploring,
and faker, unhappier
and skinner and broken
and scarer and scarer
and thinner and thinner
and thinner and thinner
and ghostler,
and death-like,
fibre-glassed,
dead thin,
dead,
inside and out.

My bowl of cereal
Tastes like giving up
Every cheerio hits my stomach
With the finality of death.
When I'm full
I'm not pretty
I'm not thin
My stomach bloats
And I am disgusting.
Laxatives are my best friend
They'll wash everything away.
Stomach acid
Burns my throat
As I empty my stomach
Again and again
But true beauty is pain
And that pain is my beauty
Because I know I'll never be pretty
But maybe I can be
Skinny

Don't listen to the pressure,
Who even said that skinny is better?
Those magazines and tv shows?
Being hateful is money and money is what they want.
So they will hate every minute of the day to make sure that their pay isn't going away.

Propaganda that visible bones is better,
Lies that skipping a meal is alright,
And teaching little girls that with their weight
They will always have to fight.

This is not how we were created to be,
We are all beautiful internally.
Don't listen to the pressure,
Skinny really isn't better.

And as you look at yourself naked in the mirror
For the first time in months
Mulling over valleys of curves
Where other girls might find emptiness
Or the blush of acne
Where modest peach may be found
You begin to wonder - who spun the planets in their dance
And if this earth really wanted it -

Or if gravity's whimsy is really some mad beast
To which celestial beings are found
With zip-locked lips, tight, wide-eyed, forcing a smile
As they are twirled madly about -
As the stars watch their blood stained ballet from their ivory tower
Spewing spells of laughter in things called nebulae -

And as you look in the mirror
And gaze into the eyes of a girl who's seen
Thick and thin wrapping her bones like a trend
You ask yourself if the earth threw a tantrum
When it was handed it's stack of seven,
It's crummy hand,
If today it is still cursed to watch
A stumbling, shuffling race
Breeding life just to slaughter it,
And not thinking about where they plant their eucalyptus trees,
Blazing trails with their talk of taxes and alcohol-stench -

If the earth is left to bellow in the currents of it's winds
Or dream wistfully of the moon in its tides
If the whispers of the breeze
And the uproar of the hurricanes
Was just a way to say
WHATS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
If it ever cursed it's luck from the draw
To burden beasts of salt and volumes of soil,
If it cried and howled to the stars above
When it wasn't given it's way.

I've learned to sort my pain
into stanzas
containing all of the beauty I don't feel.

so I write the poetry I can't live
and live the poetry I can't write.

with each word i attempt
to romanticize
skinny thighs
a mothers lies
or a daughters cries
in hopes that one day I'll watch my memories
the way you read them.

Lately I've been measuring,
It Seems that my time is growing thin,
Wind me up and watch me spin.

I'm just skin and bones

All worn out and nothing fits
Brennevin and cigarettes
The more I give the less I get
But I'm all set,

To be just skin and bones.

her breath colors the winter air gray
not the ugly kind of gray that winter snow ages into
and not the kind that's pretty either.
it's the kind of gray that's too fragile for time to sustain
it's the kind of fragile too light for scales to hold
it's the kind of light that wants to be lighter, that wants to be weightless
it's the kind of weightless that only knows bony arms and hollow cheeks
and it's the kind of bony, the kind of hollow, that turns ribs into cages
and cages into prisons for hearts that want to be—
not ugly, not pretty, not fragile, not light, not lighter, not weightless,
and not even bony or hollow—
but just
*be.