Look at yourself

Squeeze any fat you have

A pinch

A handful

How much is too much?

What really is fat or skinny?

Victoria's Secret "Love My Body" campaign shows seven svelte models while Dove's "Real Beauty campaign features an array of 'Real Women' with curves in all the right places 

Both campaigns exclude most body types and show major problems with society

One shows plus sized is okay is only okay if you're plus in the right places

The other proves skinny is king

These are the standards we set for little ones to abide by

With a small bust plus wasn't an option

So I turned skeletons into goddesses 

Prayed the would teach me how not to need

Worshiped hipbones over pizza

A tiny waist over lunch

Anorexia has the highest mortality rate of any mental illness

Yet todays media forms computers in the minds of children to count calories as thought food were merely numbers

I learned how to purge from a pro Ana website when I was nine

Stuck a toothbrush down my throat and forced up dinner

Turned to laxatives at 12

Learned ill was okay if skinny was the side effect

Today I look at myself

Squeeze any fat I have

A handful

A pinch

How much is too much

The devil is a boy
pretending to be a man,
who makes you feel
like you deserved
the unwanted advances.
And convinces you
that black and blue bruises
is the art upon your skin,
which he embellished on your thighs,
because you looked so
******* ****,
he couldn’t resist.

And now you
force a laugh and lie
and pretend
that each time
you see his face
you don’t cower away
in fear.
Silently wishing,
always praying
to the God that you don’t believe
loves you anymore.
Praying that this boy,
pretending to be a man
would burn in his flames.

But devils never die.

Even if I did that night.

trigger warning: do not read if you have depression.*

hot showers are always the best
when you're sad and depressed
what's the point in
staying in this joint
living your sorrows over and over
there might not be another tomorrow
black and blue
pink scars too

Light bounces off the cold metal,
A ****** blade begging for skin.
Pant leg pulled up above her ankle,
Looking for an escape from sin.

Crimson forming behind the glide,
Not too deep she's in control.
The knot within comes untied,
She watches as the feelings roll.

She keeps fighting this battle,
One she feels she may not win.
But her blade in turn is evil,
Instead it will let him in.

The rush wears off she runs to hide,
Into the comfort of her hole.
She knows she'd have rather died,
Than live with this broken soul.

If I had died..
you would have to live with the guilt
the guilt of knowing
you killed me.
maybe you’d eventually
forget me
replace me
let go of that guilt.
but maybe,
when you look at her
in just the right lighting
you see my face
instead of hers
or you look at your daughter
and remember that you helped me pick
what ours would have been named
or maybe when you see roses or the moon
you’ll remember my tattoos and how badly I wanted them and how I always wanted more of them
and maybe you’d feel guilty again.

It’s getting bad again.
My skin is scratching, itching, burning.
I want to rake my nails down my wrist
just to relieve a little pressure.

It’s building up inside me.
I’m afraid that I’ll explode
and imbed shrapnel in those
who are closest to me.

I shy away
and leave myself alone.
Better to suffer in silence
than to make others worry.

I want to press a blade
deep into my hips.
To feel the blood bubbling up
and all my pressure-pain-panic
leaving with
each drop that flows down my thigh.

Just like old times.

My suicide is something I've dreamed of for a while.
My suicide scares me because I do not know what is after.
My suicide is something I have attempted many times but failed.
My suicide is going to be a relief.
My suicide is selfish.
My suicide is going to be by blade to my wrist.
My suicide is a thought that soothes me.
My suicide is going to be hard for the people around me.
My suicide will eventually be forgotten.
My suicide seems blissful but horrible at the same time.









I hope my suicide is soon.

dear god,
(if god is listening)
i have not died
today.

when the ledge called to me
i did not answer;
when the blade stared at me
i did not falter,
did not offer my hand in greeting
did not hope for it to hold me;
instead
i lay there
and waited for the day to break.

the world kept turning
and i have been left here,
in the strange in-between,
in the stillness;
all the unremarkable tasks
and the things i should be doing -
if i am not swamped by sadness
i am burdened by work;

it is all right.
i have not died
today.
by tomorrow i will return.

dear friends
(for you are the last true thing)
the heart is still heavy
but sometimes the burden is shared.
my hands are still shaking
and i am so tired
but i cannot wait to see you again.
i have not died
today.

dear voice in my head that tells me to die
(i have to believe you are false)
you are so good at convincing me
but by some foolish miracle
i have not died
today.

dear myself
(it has been a while;
come home soon)
yes, i know;
we are both tired
and drawn to the exit sign
but we have not died
yet.
we are still here
and quite alive;
it is all right
even if we are only waiting
for our life to remember her purpose;

it is all right.
we will not die
tomorrow.

I want to do a lot right now and in my head I'm doing them.

I'm smashing every single window I see.

I'm bashing my head repeatedly on the pavement, until my brain is rewired correctly.

I'm throwing the new expensive mug I just bought on the floor.

I'm picking up the shards from said mug and smashed windows and ripping my wrists wide open.

I'm laying on the train tracks, my innards splayed out, a spectacle for everyone to admire.