Waking up is hard,
But going to sleep is harder.
We don't like to fall asleep,
But if we do,
We love to.

Not eating is hard,
But eating is harder,
We don't like to put on weight,
But if we don't mind it,
We love to.

People don't tell you sadness
weighs a thousand pounds.

My words fail
Futile tears fell
Nothing to feel
You let me go
Now what I see in you
Smile that mocks me
Humour to torment me
Punches of repugnance
Your eyes carry it all
Pain of time with me
My weight lowered you
I couldn't see now
What I use to
Hidden in the layers
My words unfolding
With your touch
This time it is over
Numbness crept in
Nothing to hear
Nothing to say

they say the grass grows greener on the other side
but I've been watering myself down day after day
counting calories, running on treadmills for hours,
you know it seems like the only thing I could eat without feeling guilty about myself is a small bowl of nothing
but even that would be too much.
and when I do eat, I eat so much that I'm too full to go on with the day
but that fullness can't fill up the empty void in my head that's supposed to be telling me to love myself
because how can I love myself when the only thing that's ever loved me was a hot pocket in the freezer
and how can I love myself when my dad says people who hurt themselves are crazy but then saw my scars and didn't apologize
and how could I love myself when I was the age of 16, the woman who gave birth to me told me depression is just a phase
and how can I love myself when the first boy I ever loved told me the only way to chase after his heart would have to be on a treadmill
and how am I supposed to love myself when people think that not eating all day is an accomplishment
but who knows maybe the grass is greener on the other side after all

I thought the world was big enough for me;
palms that hold the ocean together so
it doesn’t escape between locked fingers,
loveless wrists that drown in the abyss where
I occupy this space that isn’t mine.

I need to be less than I am to fit in between
bars,
so I can escape the prisons of this gruesome insanity
darling, stitch my bones together before
I collapse into scattered pieces
take away from the numbers and make them smaller
like my throbbing heart
and hide those starless veins where there’s no breath
and don’t forget to make a fortress out of my dying skin
for the birds no longer sing on delicate silk sheets

I heard the whisper.

I heard the voices in my head, spinning circles, clasping hands,

Singing ring around the rosy until I fell down on the cold floor once again
In a palette of red paint.

The artist wasn’t quite finished yet with this masterpiece.

But I listen as his voice rises higher and higher with excitement and his words start to beat their tiny wings, and he cries

This represents the healing that we can no longer reach on our own.

This represents the pills we have to be given so we can learn to quit reaching for them when times get too tough.

This represents the itchy white hospital gowns hiding her fragile body so she can learn to be comfortable in her skin.

This represents hope so high that I can’t see it anymore.

And he breaks the legs of his canvas in a flurry of hatred for the beauty he created,

Because it will never be felt by the critics who rate this pain on a scale from 1 to 10.

And all you’ve been fighting for doesn’t mean a thing

When she peers on tiptoes into the mirror and sees

Fingertips quick to pull triggers.

And rose-petal bones start to wither.

And her lower lip tries not to quiver

When the tears get too heavy.

But she lets them fall like paint off a brush and they crash on the tiles.

She lets the floor crack under her feet while praying to god to send her to hell

Just so she can feel the flames.
So she can feel the smoke charring her lungs,
And she rots from the inside out.

He watches, the paintbrush dancing in his hand like her war torn desert palms and
They pull their triggers.

She paints the wall with her sadness and he frames it to sell
To the critics who carry the scales that killed her.

In my Prada purse, I carry my heavy medical textbook
I carry an extra tube of my MAC lipstick in Russian Red
I carry a comb
My ID
A clear nail polish topcoat
And a bottle of eye drops that I avoid using because it makes my mascara run.

In my wholesome home, I have glossy tiled bathrooms
Pristine, crisp, snow white curtains
Organic, citrus scented cleansers
Granite counter tops
And large mahogany desks.

In my hollow heart I cradle my worries of a straying spouse,
My anger towards the anonymous administrator
My notions of a sneaky baba
My choking OCD
My crippling debt to a vile man
And the breaking weight of having to shield my children from all that goes on behind locked doors.