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Mick Feb 25
I used to go digging for my bones
to plant an açaí in the plot.
I used to go fishing for my bones
in a sea of plastic waste.
I used to go hunting for my bones
to eat and eat and eat and eat.
Follow me on Instagram @MickRWrites for more writing stuff :)
Allison Wonder Sep 2019
Stomach is empty
Weight falling like fat raindrops.
Still is not enough.
(c) Allison Wonder
Sawyer Jun 2019
I wanna hear my stomach collapse
Rumbling like screams echoing in an empty tavern
I want stalactite ribs
And stick-man fingers,
Thighs the size of a child’s wrist and
I don’t care what I have to do
To get it

I am obsessed.
Addicted to falling,
Falling numbers,
Falling deeper into disorder, disrepair,
Falling for a girl named Ana
Who tells me I can have everything that I want
For easy daily payments of pain and despair.

But, it feels oh so good to be hungry.
Aches and pains make me high,
And sure, it’s scary knowing I could die but
At this point…
Maybe I’d be okay with that if I get to live one day
At 100 pounds.

What is wrong with me?
i should probably talk to someone about this
aaron Dec 2018
they said
"you'd be jealous"
they lost 42 pounds
in only four months
quickly doing the math
that's 10.5 pounds per month
2.625 pounds per week
i laughed a bit
realizing their monthly rate
was how much i had lost
within only two weeks
then i asked myself
"why would i be jealous
when i can be better
and lose that 42 pounds
in half the time took them?"
Kilano Saddler Sep 2018
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.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
I walk by
"Here comes tiny"
My ears burn
"Wish I could wear those pants"
I hear the murmurs
"You're so skinny"
I hear the whispers
"Just skin and bones"
I should feel good, right?
"You should eat a burger"
I earned this long ago
"You're too bony"
I put the work in
"How about a bulk?"
But the reflection revolting
"I need to eat less"
Still a decade later
"I still need to lose more"
Why can't I just love my body
"I am such a disgust."
I struggled with weight issues as a kid till my senior year in high school when I finally decided to do something about it. This was in 2005. I still haven't learned to be comfortable in my body.
Purity Nov 2017
"God you look horrid
Do something about your weight"

I find it kind of funny
How you can hurl the exact same insult

Before and after I shed 100 pounds
Naomi Hurley Jul 2017
Parched skin becomes moist
With dew drops dripping down the back of my neck
And beneath my *******

My face deepens like a ripe peach
As flesh disappears
Skin dissolves into


A cool exterior warms
And my body is tingling, trembling,
Buzzing like a thousand fire ants
Swarming around my thighs
My arms
My core

Encapsulated in sweat,
This shell is a temple
One that thrives on progress

I am *****

I am filthy

I am strong.
Workin' on my fitness.
Clare Margaret Jul 2017
I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first period, first kiss, first full shave
from armpit to ankle.

The teacher pulls me aside--all smiles
and maternal excitement.
She tells me that my test scores put me
in the 98th percentile.

I **** my head, recalling the soft-lead, the
guarded pencil sharpener at the front of the room,
and the bullseye ovals that tested my mind,
my palm sweat, my straining eyes.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
first violent fight with my mother, first homosexual
fantasy, first dressing room meltdown.

The pediatrician pulls me aside--half austerity, half pity.
He tells me that I need three HPV shots, and by the way,
my weight puts me
in the 98th percentile.

My eyes sink back into my face, and the flood doesn’t come
until I am home, curled into my mother’s breast,
wondering how to divide my head into
Focused Student and Focused Starver.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
times tables and long division and calories
in an apple and calories burned in a playground brawl.

I learn to count my success in numbers and my failures
in grams, pounds, inches, threats
of fat camp, images of thick yellow fat
sandwiched between my organs.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
98th percentile and chewing and spitting and growing
and pinching the body that I cannot call my own--
and numbing the brain that matches the magnitude of my fullness.

I am a split-girl, a shame reservoir spilling
over and out and coating my paper with fractions and plans
of calculated disappearance.

I am in fourth grade--ten years old,
and the teacher’s clock doesn’t stop, and the and the doctor’s scale doesn’t pause
to make room for my magnitude.
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