lost in the haze
of this hell i've created

they say i look well
but i'm sick with self hatred

I once killed a sunflower
by giving it too much water
and I read somewhere that that was beautiful,
because it meant I didn't know when
to stop giving.
But tell me,
all-knowing poet,
where is the beauty
if the end result was death?

what a terrifying word.
my friend said i was getting healthy,
and i stared at her, speechless.
my mother said i was being healthy,
and i couldn't speak without crying.
my counselor said i was looking healthy,
and i had never hated that word so much.
i just kept thinking: if they knew,
if they knew,
if they knew
the internal warzone i feel every time i see a fork
(let alone a knife),
they would find a different word.
if they knew that my only control is saying no
to every time i feel my stomach clawing at me
like a whimpering puppy,
they would find a different word.
if they knew that i've forgotten how to eat
without the taste of giving up,
they would find a different word.
i didn't know how bad it was
until the guilt from lunch was so overwhelming
that i downed four bottles of water
one after the other
simply because i couldn't stop;
and i didn't know how bad it was
until i was pacing my room at 11:36 pm
just to get in another two thousand steps
before going to bed;
and i didn't know how bad it was
until i was crying in the bathroom
begging to feel my hatred of food rise up my throat
and scrubbing my teeth to erase the taste of numbers.
my priorities are all in the wrong places-
i forgot to read my Bible for three days straight
but heaven forbid i fall asleep
without doing fifty situps in my bed
and tracing my hands along the bones i can feel through my back.
the last thing my grandfather said to me
was demanding to know "how i did it"
and my mother stopped commenting on my body
when i noticed her starting to look at me with worry.
i don't see the change they see anyway.
i still see all the weight the scale says i've dropped,
and i keep telling myself that i'll see the difference
with just a few more.
just a few more and then i'll believe them.
just a few more and i'll stop feeling guilty
for every morning that i don't wake up and see stars.
just a few more and then there will be something wrong with me.
but i got healthy,
i look healthy,
i am healthy-
and i hate it.
i'm not thin enough,
not sick enough,
not lost enough
to let myself believe that i need help.
but i don't remember when feeling sick
began to replace the goal of feeling healthy,
and i don't remember when fainting
started feeling like a badge of honour i wonder when i'll get.
i wrote myself a letter yesterday,
but i don't remember thinking the words until i read them.
just a little longer,
and then we'll be in control;
just a little longer,
and then we'll be proud;
just a little longer,
and then we can ask for help.

maybe.