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unnamed Jan 24
My sick twisted gaze
On the women and the men
Thigh gaps, finger bones, ribs.
Thinspo: short for thinspiration. Inspiration to be thinner, photos of thin people in poses which enhances their thinness.
"Everyone wants to be a little anorexic" she says

"You know, like, in a glamorous way, like fashion friendly anorexic"

I bite my cheek and nod, pretend to agree

All I can think of is waking up to stars dancing on the ceiling

Pale skin with bruises of unknown origins

And battered feet on and off the scale

Almonds in Ziploc baggies

Bite marks on fingers

Hair down the drain

Measuring crunches by the marks they leave on your spine

And battered feet on and off the scale

Enough water to turn organs into boats

Eating an apple with a fork and knife

Desperate hands grasping for ribs

And battered feet on and off the scale

Standing and the world going dark

Coughing around shots of apple cider vinegar

Carrying an emergency rice cake for weak spells

And battered feet on and off the scale

Enough green tea to drown organs

Sugar free gum to mask the smell of decaying organs

Whatever nail polish covers yellow and purple

And battered feet on and off the scale

How many calories are in toothpaste

Thinspo blogs

Pillows squeezed between thighs

And battered feet on and off the scale

Is today the day my heart gives out

Waking every day in a new body

Fingers clasped around wrists

And battered feet on and off the scale

Notebooks filled with numbers

Purple crescents under eyes

Fingers clasped around forearms

And battered feet on and off the scale

Elbows knocking into hipbones

Being scared of your own reflection

Lies to get out of dinner

And battered feet on and off the scale

The stench of *****

Oxygen that tastes of Splenda

Fingers clasped around biceps

And bleeding feet on and off the scale


If this is your idea of glamour

Then you can have it
Trigger Warning
Jaz Feb 2018
I don't know how to explain
   what the hunger does to me
             but I can try

The hunger pains are an addiction
       without them
I am l o s t

I'm nothing without them
       I'm nothing without the control
I want
       nothing but beauty

Trying to be strong
it hurts
it hurts
Your disapproval
******* hurts

Be happy for me
I found my happy place

isn't that what you wanted?
Nicholas Strick Dec 2017
To those who have said,
That I need more meat on my bones.
Please, leave me the hell alone.

Call me string bean one more ******* time,
And I swear to god, I’ll kamikaze my metabolism.
Just so I don’t have to hear “toothpick” again,
And what most may not know is that:

I have an intimate relationship with food,
and cook with the same heart that I love with.
So let me tell you something:
This heart isn’t something you should **** with.

This heart is surprise bouquets and cabernet,
Romanesco blooms and manta ray.
Caviar salad and salmon fillet,
With rosemary, lemon, and that Old Bay....

So don’t tell me that I need to learn how to eat,
I think the issue is more so that,
You need to learn how to cook.

Other than an unusually fast metabolism,
My trim stature can be attributed to a
Wooden box of my own broken hearts
That I’ve collected over the years of trying to love.

Maybe the people that are the skinniest,
Are the people who lost their appetites a while ago.
After a broken heart or a passing friend,
Or a relationship that was never meant to end.

So let me ask you this.
Tell me what you know about,
Gravity working overtime to keep
A fork away from your mouth?

It’s better to of loved and lost,
Than to have never of loved at all.
But I’ve loved so many,
And lost so much,
It’s no wonder my waist is so small.

When I see someone with...
A little more to love, I get jealous,
Because it shows how much they have loved,
And how little they’ve lost.

Shows that they have consistent love,
A persistent love, that different love.
Whenever you tell me that I need to eat more,
You’re actually saying: patch up your heart.

Put duct tape over all the holes,
And hope that my heart stays afloat --
to somehow trick the freudian part of me
into thinking that everything’s okay.

That everything has been okay.
As if it’s something I have never tried doing,
Because I enjoy being called toothpick.

When you tell me I need more meat on my bones.
I want to tell you to hurt a little,
Feel how heavy a fork gets
when someone’s on your mind.

Feel how hard chewing becomes,
When you’ve already bit off
more than you can handle.

I want you to feel the Carolina Reaper,
Throw burning embers into your wooden casket
Of overthinking, and feel the heat,
When you put yourself under the pressure to eat.

I want you to know the feeling
Of your stomach eating itself from the inside out.
But you can’t bare to remember to eat,
So you just drown it out in stout.

I want you to feel so overwhelmed,
That hours last seconds and days last minutes.
And time escapes you and all you can think about
Is how you’re going to forget about “her”.

I want you to spend every waking moment,
Replaying the same images in your head.
Working all day, and then getting to bed,
Realizing all you had today was butter and bread.

I want for someone to break your heart,
And for you to forget to eat.
And then have to be called stringbean,
Everyday in between.

I want you to see
Filet mignon and mushroom cap stuffing.
King crab legs and honey-glazed duckling,
And feel your stomach do absolutely nothing.
[ . . . ]
But I hope that you never feel this way.

This grief makes for hungriest people,
but makes for the best poetry and music.
And it’s not something I’m willing to share,
With someone who calls me toothpick.
dex Oct 2015






be­ing *hungry

is *deliciously

the way my ribs ache
the perpetual cold that veils me
the shortness of breath and lightheadedness as I ascend the stairs
the burning of my tired legs as they beg me to fuel them,
but I laugh,


                   better than food

but perhaps my favorite part
          about being hungry...




     ... is the sharpness of scents
   every detail of every crumb
                  is more acutely sensed

by the hungry girl's nose

            and it is delicious.





Note: My great aunt passed away from anorexia. I do NOT support eating disorders or the culture that promotes them. This piece was a response to a question someone asked me, “What do you think is going through their heads when they won't eat?” This was an artistic representation of my plight to understand. That is all.
always anxious Oct 2014
It's our little secret.
You'll have to keep it
Feel the pain in your gut
Close your heart and keep it shut.
Let no other person in
And let the punishment begin.
Every wrong thing that you make
Will also be my mistake

I'm beginning to see.
What people think of me,
I swear it's not by choice,
But ana has this voice.
She starves me of my youth,
And that's the only truth.
This hunger grows in me like cancer
I expected her to have the answers
And she did
But she haven't made me fit
Rochelle R Jun 2014
Silently, "I need to tell you something."
I approach. Falter, walk away.

I need to break this bond I have with silence,
This unhealthy affair I have with solitude.

I haven't even the energy to pull the words up from my stomach.
I heave,
Retching out nothing but bile and air.

I have so many things to say,
Passing fruitlessly through the space between my ears.

Speaking of space, that seams to be where I exist.
It's either that, or this is Purgatory.

Too much conscience to be clinically depressed,
Too far gone to be "normal",

"This is what it feels like to be a ghost."
To no one, again.
Jackeline Chacon Aug 2014
Dreaming of walking model thin
Unaware she's bones and skin

She lives in a damaged brain
Drowned from her vomiting pain

Her insecurity torn up her mind
Left her bulimic and mentally blind

Always hugging her toilet beside
Half dead from purging her soul inside

Crying because her ugly reflection
She won't give up until she's perfection
MS Lynch May 2014
I’m sorry if my body fat
triggers feelings of disgust in you,
but I hope you’re ready
because I’m about to shoot the gun.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach.
My skin is not an insult, a statement, an apology,
or something to be picked and pulled apart
by your crisp magazine pages.
I refuse to cry over the pale white lines that show I
have blossomed from a child into a wide-hipped woman.
I don’t need a man to tell me that my body is acceptable,
merely by his standards of what his ******* rises for.
I’m sorry if my life makes me happy, and your life makes you not,
but I choose weight over senseless standards because
I can be beautiful with double-digit-sized pants.
Maybe you are uncomfortable with your
own uncomfortableness and with my
security in my flawed skin.
And although many of my “sorry(’s)” in this passage
are sarcastic, I am genuinely sorry that someone can feel
so negative in the only space that will ever truly be their own.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach,
she does not need bitter and hateful words
that will literally eat away at her.
She’d much rather you go find someone
who actually gives a ****.
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