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Little whimpers escape your lips as your fingers reach toward the moon

Your wrists are gripped and forced against brick

Breaths coming and going quickly

Yelps from your throat leave you raw

Teeth in your neck leave you rigid

Aching, eyes drooping

Cold and heavy

You drop
I seem to reward myself for bad behavior, and while others don’t understand it to be bad, it gnaws at me. Grows like a tumor, because even if an accident, or happenstance, I still seem to shrink, but not before my body rebels and solidifies into making me gorge on fiber until I lose the nerve and rush to other means. I’m not supposed to do it on purpose, not like Lori, and I hold myself back, convinced that my weight-loss is not an extension of my personality, but I cant help but admit I’m obsessed with the scale. Obsessed with an anti-me. My therapist doesn’t see the pattern, and maybe she is right, but I am too busy worrying about becoming obsessed that I have become obsessed with being obsessed. A hundred and seven pounds, and I have had to seriously fight to control myself not to create harm, and when my stomach doesn’t seem to want to let go of food after days, I can’t help but go to my medicine cabinet, find the laxative, and let my body suffer in such an embarassing way.

I watched Lori do it, and I swore I wouldn’t. But I am, even if for the sake of relief, of release. And I swear it’s not a habit, but that means nothing come every Monday when I have to be the beacon at the group weigh-ins, to mark some kind of false sense of hope for others. They call me an inspiration, and even if not intentional, I feel like I have been cheating.

My grandfather asks me every time I tell him about my weight-loss, “Are you sure you aren’t hurting yourself?” and I am reminded of the decades of humiliation he wrought upon me due to my obesity. What right does he have to ask of harm when he helped drive me to four hundred and more pounds? Maybe this is punishment for all the times his words cut deep enough to make me keep eating in anguish. Maybe I’ll just keep losing long after I hit my goal until there is nothing left– not even dust to be carried along with the wind.

Thoughts like that make me worry that it has evolved from lifestyle change to pure, unadulterated obsession. The kind I have seen time and time again.

My family has always been riddled with addicts.
These shots were never taken by chance

They were of anger taken under sunshine

This smoke can oh so muddle your view of the truth

They use smoke of their own to hide their intentions



But the truth can be seen rolling by, glinting red

The weapon of black turns their eyes white 

One shines with tears; the other dull and dirty

The greedy man hides the youth of all seventeen



It could have been stopped

And the young could continue

This is preventable

But he continues to enable



His smiles are swamp green

His words are shiny gold

But he hides it all behind his suit of blue
I wrote this right after the shooting in Florida actually happened and poured all of my anger, sadness and fear into it.
I see your gaze tunneled blurry

I know you only see my face as painted with a sharpie  

And see me as your dolly

Because I’m not real I’m just your pretty plastic body!

Ready to play whenever you demand Harvey.

Your ugly plastic words fall upon deaf plastic ears- but sure it’s a party!  

Underneath I scream and fight to stay sturdy.

I am not your dolly!

I am not just your pretty plastic body!



And I would not ‘look so pretty wearing this red lipstick with my lips wrapped around your dick,’ Harvey.
A mirror reflects harsher words than I’ve ever heard,
Even if they’re slurred.

These words say they won’t grieve,
Won’t care if I leave.

I go after my veins looking to bleed
Maybe then I can be freed.

These voices continue to come in a flood-
Maybe I can escape with my blood.

I can hear them no matter how much I scream and shout
Maybe another sting will draw them out

Another sting and I’ll feel something else.
Maybe then I’ll feel my pulse.

Another sting and maybe it will mask the sting of my own words...
Numb spreads through your veins.

Spreading like ice on the surface of a fast freezing lake.

You are becoming frozen, hypothermic.

Immobile like the mannequins in the shop windows.

Your fingers and toes tingle, and your throat is paralyzed.

Eyes transfixed by a hypnotist.

Glossy, like all the rest unmoving, empty behind the glaze.

Your head lulls to the side, a puppet done with the show.

Water beats at your shell, yelping yearning for your thoughts.

Your brain has flown away, back to its own fairy-tale, leaving your corpse behind.
Ray Ross Sep 11
I was drunk last night.
I made a sandwich at one in the morning
I hated the feeling of alcohol
Burning in my stomach,
But I was drunk last night,
I was alone.
I remembered how
I stood on the edge of the cliff,
I had no fear that time,
Because if I'd died, I wouldn't care.
The way my arm was torn and split,
So I could prove that I still feel,
I wasn't drunk then.
But I was drunk last night.
I wrote poetry about wristwatches
And watched music videos
Until I passed out in this bed.
I don't know why I did it.
But I feel sick today.
I'm 16, I shouldn't be doing this.
925 Sep 6
These nights I have more trouble sleeping
My eyes ache and my stomach growls
In disappointment
Another meal to many
Another meal to little
My teeth are clamped shut
Painfully almost.
I have to remind myself I'm safe
I go through the protocol
But these days I have more trouble sleeping
My eyes open and see only you and they ache when I try to stitch them shut.
Eating before bed is not a good idea, I tell myself for the hundredth time. Warning for eating disorder mention.  Also slight gore I guess? Idk stay safe
925 Sep 6
I use a ruler and a
Razor
To draw a 90 de-
gree triangle on my ribs
And think to myself -
Finally,
Some symmetry
In the mess that is my body
One slightly smaller eye than the
other,
One slightly larger breast than the
other,
My ears point in
Different directions
And my nostrils don't
Quite match up
But now I have this bleeding
Triangle on my ribs
Measured and perfect as a
surgeon would do.
Sleep escapes me. I'm not sure if this is too explicit? It's fine if you wish to remove it. Open to criticism!
floriculturist Jul 2017
i.
and in that deafening silence,
i’ve never wished more to be heard,
wracked with endless demurs of regret and remorse –
impure, impure, impure.

ii.
but it’s my choice, isn’t it?
to bear the knot of pearls come undone,
to feel it shift from skin to soul,
to speak of loving, and then let go.
(i see this now as a luxury i could not afford.)

iii.
if i don’t rise come blooming spring,
ring the church bells for those left unheard,
wash the red from the bed sheets,
please unhinge my strife from the earth;

and know this:

iv.
a man is no longer a man,
after his unbidden pillage,
has left an innocent soul shaken;
unholy and impure.

l.a.c
something we need to talk about more.
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