I admit it..
I'm an attention *****.

I starve myself, even though i know how skinny i am, even though i know 100 lbs is not a lot.

I starve myself so people will notice me.
Talk about me.
Feel bad for calling me all that rude stuff.

For the
"I want her body"
For the
"Did you lose weight"
For the
People who will start caring.

So people will talk behind my back about how i never eat.

But also to have legs to die for, and a waist to love.
To be perfect.

I was with my boyfriend today.
When i started crying randomly he got confused and tried to comfort me..
But he couldn't
Cause i can'ttell him what's wrong..
He'd just be dissappointed that i feel worse again and that i lost 3 kg in a week.

I can't dissappoint him like that..

Why is it that when you're sick enough.
Recovery feels like the sickness and the relapses feel like recovery?

I think you could compare my situation to a wound.

At first it's a papercut.
Doesn't look like much.
But stings as hell.
Everyone knows that, but no one admits.

Then it turns into a cut.
Still doesn't look like much.
Stings less, but hurts more.
But it doesn't mean much it's just a cut.

And after a while it'll be a fleshwound.
Trips to the ER to get it fixed.
Everyone knowing and asking about it.
Everyone being concerned.

Then it'll get fixes and heal slowly.
But sometimes you rip it back open.
But no one notices that after a while.
You don't want them to know.

This is one of the wounds that'll never heal, there will always be a scab to pick at when you're sad.
You keep ripping it open.

But at one point you learn how to
Protect it, it'll just take a while
And It'll be hard.
But there will still be a wound.

It's getting bad again.
Like.. Really bad.

I wanna be skinny.
Though i know that i am already, but i still have that belly fat.

I wanna go to extremes.
I know i'm attention seeking.
But we all have our small ****** stuff.

I don't wanna get better.
I donmt want to recover.
I want attention.

My art teacher requires me to have an x-acto knife in my possession.
This, my friend, is a bad idea.
You see, she is blissfully unaware of my harmful tendencies.

But I can assure you, that if there's one thing I know,
it's that knife will be used on more than an art project.

School in itself is a trigger.
Knives and razors are the index finger that pulls said trigger,
setting off an explosion of blood along my wrist.

See, dear art teacher, that knife will hit my skin,
whether I want it to or not.
In a moment of weakness,
of stress,
I will turn to that available outlet.

I do not know what is scarier.
Having that knife with me every day,
or knowing that a twisted part of me wants to use it.

(d.d.b)

I remember that dreadful day
when my life was changed.
my happiness
my freedom
all taken away from me
I lost the little independence I had
your intimidating posture was overwhelming
I didn't have the strength to defend myself
my body would flinch
at every touch
I was out of it like I was drugged.
I was paralyzed with panic.
you gained pleasure
I gained pain.
my expression was dark
yours unsentimental
after the unthinkable
my arms were covered with scars.
I feared being alone
I went to war with myself.
I became an unrecognizable monster
I wasn't strong enough to handle the pain.
two years later,
I remember that dreadful day
when my life changed.

I thought that it was
just a dream,
What happened between 
her and me.

When we met I was
extremely glad,
But I could tell inside
that she was sad.

She had told me she might
have to leave, 
And that when she was gone
I'm not to grieve.

I had told her that she 
would be fine,
Things would get better 
if she gave it time.

I woke up and felt 
something was wrong,
So I rang her doorbell but
it took too long

I rushed inside and
saw the scars,
They were on her legs and she had
gashed her arms.

And what I saw when I looked
in her eyes,
Was that she knew that she
was gonna die.

And what I felt when I knew
she was gone,
Is that she was right
And I was wrong.