I really don't think you understand.
I will explain it to you.

Being bulimic is convincing yourself,
That you don't like pizza, or chips, or ice cream.
And eventually you believe it whole heartedly.
And you cannot stand those foods anymore.

Being bulimic is pretending
To eat dinner in your room,
And just hiding it in a plastic bag,
Until you have time to get rid of it.

Being bulimic is more than just counting calories.
You count calories, and bites, and calculate percentage of calories from fat,
And how many calories you have left that day.
And you can't sleep if you haven't written every bite down.

Being bulimic is having an absolute panic attack
When dinner plans are changed.
You planned for this meal.
And now everything you worked so *******, is gone.

Being bulimic is waiting till 2 am,
When everyone is asleep,
So you can sneak out to the kitchen,
And take a bunch of food back to your room.

Being bulimic is binging on so much food,
Way beyond what makes your stomach feel comfortable,
And you don't even like the food your eating.
You don't even like it, and you just stuff it in your mouth.

Being bulimic is being able to ***** without a toothbrush,
And doing at least 600 crunches that night,
So that you don't need to cut yourself
For what you just did.

Romanticize it all you want,
But my teeth rotted,
And i still have friends that listen outside the bathroom door.
Have fun, because I'm not.

Collin got a little upset today.
I got two tattoos at a tattoo parlor today,
And he got scared.
I let him sleep in the backseat of the car,
And I let him eat some cookies,
Only because they weren't real.
They were ghost cookies,
There's only ghost sugar in them.
That does no harm at all.
He did steal a few sips of my coffee though,
That was an absolute nightmare.
Four year olds cannot handle coffee.
Such a handful.
Collin is on the ceiling.

I sought Him in temples where anthems swell
Stained glass windows and polished sermons suave;
Yet here I knew He did not dwell,
While poor child of dust creeps to his grave.

I sought Him in churches rustic and plain
Eager to drown my heartfelt sorrow,
These mockery so futile and vain
As I searched for a brighter morrow.

In meadow alone, a breeze touched my face
Whispering of days bygone, yet still dear
When life flowed at a leisurely pace
And I felt His presence - O! so near!

Bittersweet weeping of the mourning dove
Awakens me to sad pleading eyes
Shattering my heart with vials of love.
Forsaken man and beast hold God's disguise.

I see Him in each rippling blade of grass
When dew of morn glistens with His tears.
In moaning of wind I hear Him pass
Through aromatic pines and lose all fears.

God does not dwell in temples made with hand,
But speaks to us through each soughing pine.
Proud wealthiest mansions o'er all the land
Mocked by His majestic Hand divine.





**~Hilda~