Alcoholic bulimia.
Empty out your insides.
Hardly anything within you.  
Still purge all of it out.
Leave a synthetic stomach As Barren as the lost at sea.
Puking until  weakened by vicious dry heaves.
exhausted and now pleased
Tile rubbing raw the knees.

Alcoholic bulimia.
Put cold fingers down your throat. Alcoholic bulimia.
Laughing as one chokes.
Alcoholic bulimia.
Bronze hair in ***** soaked.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Put cold ******* fingers.
Down your cut up throat.
Alcoholic bulimia.
Alcoholic bulimia.

Finger nails cutting the asofogis.
Head in toilet stains with

Bulimia is a scary thing.
That is a fact.
She'll cradle and choke you.
But she'll get rid of the fat.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
But this is for sure-
The burning in your throat and mouth
Will not be the only sore.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
Late at night when you're alone
She'll be with you
Kneeling at the porcelain thrown.

Bulimia is a scary thing.
Because very soon
She'll have you dreaming
Of being a thinspo.

The stomach pain is horrendous
The taste of dessert coming back
The look of disaster
stab me, choke me, **** me
The disapproval upon the faces
The miserable sounds in the background
The insecurity peaking out
save me, help me, rescue me
The choke before the gag
The spit before the rest
The death in my stomach
take me, be me, please
The blood in my gums
The ache in my throat
It's over–
I'm alright again.

Dreaming of walking model thin
Unaware she's bones and skin

She lives in a damaged brain
Drowned from her vomiting pain

Her insecurity torn up her mind
Left her bulimic and mentally blind

Always hugging her toilet beside
Half dead from purging her soul inside

Crying because her ugly reflection
She won't give up until she's perfection

knuckles rubbed raw by
teeth so sharp and blunt
a tongue rough and silent

violent retching
self-harm for a throat
already held by a noose

she promises
just

one more cookie
one last bite
one last calorie
one last breath
one

the toilet bowl is her best friend
and she hugs it close
when no one can hear

No matter how many times he hurts you
No matter how many times he wrongs you
No matter how many times someone tells you how dangerous he is
You crawl back

You crawl back with a head full of muddled thoughts
Searching for satisfaction
Convinced that he’s your salvation

Each time you lie next to him
In a fitful sleep
Bearing your guilt as he sleeps smugly and soundlessly beside you
Because he knows that no matter how much you fight

You’ll be back

You put your fingers in the back of your throat
In hopes you can gain what you have already lost
control
But you are lying to yourself
Because you never really had it

I am destroying my body
With every purge I take
And the sickest thing is
I am perfectly fine with it.

Poetry is a disease
Words sit in your gut like rotten meat
You hold onto your stomach for dear life
'Cos it's full of knives
There's no choice but to stick your pen down your throat
And bring it all up

Yeah, poets can't tie knots
And they don't own a pistol

And all that venom just stifles and stinks

But you can close the book
And close your eyes
Ready to hate yourself tomorrow

x

"Bulimia nervosa, an eating disorder that involves bingeing on food followed by purging, can cause gum disease, osteoporosis, kidney disease, heart disease, and death. Bulimia affects mostly women and teens." - WebMD.com*

My eyes blurred as I wiped away the remaining evidence from my mouth.
I cried.

It seems that bulimia had taken over my life these past couple of months.
Even my hands shake now.
For some reason, I didn't seem to care that I could give myself cancer with this, that I could die from this.

My headaches have gotten worse, my depression even more intense.
And my poor, sweet mother, willing to believe that I am sick and NOT doing this to myself.

Could I really do this to her?
She now has the duty to care for several children that are not hers because she cares too much.
She tries, but she no longer listens to her own children.

My mother is broken.
Revealing this to her will only break her more.

So I'll keep quiet.
Purging and ridding myself of my shame and self respect.
What could possibly be worse?

when the urge is too strong
and my head is muddled with thoughts and crazieness
I dive into the toilet
the eye of the storm, the only calm
And after, sing myself to bed
with my raw throat and ****** teeth
and lie in a fitful sleep
choking on waves of guilt and *****

Believe me its easier this way
Useless, thats what I am
Lies pour out of my mouth
I’m sorry you got dragged into this
My knuckles are red and scared for a reason
I love you
And I’m sorry

Bet you
Everyone
Loves seeing me
Like this
Am I right?

We've known each other for long
But still, you can't say a thing
That would define me
What's that spark you see?

Well, I don't know
You have no clue what lives inside my guts
No way you could see within
So why are you still here, wondering who's under the skin?

I don't want you to get *****, finding out who I am
Coz there's a lot of **** inside my head
And much more ***** in my heart, both can't be replaced
No point in cleaning it up, trust me I've tried many times before

And I don't really need you
To see the mess
People around me have done
Coz you've helped them too

I'm sorry that it's true
And there is no cure for me
So don't try to find it
Or else, regrets will hunt me down
Because you've wasted your time not only
On me, but on my issues, too

How many times have you cried because of me?
How many times you wished you were dead
Because your feelings were accepted but not given back?
Tell me, I'll listen before I go, disappear on the quiet bubbly road

There's bulimia in me, I figured it out
Vomiting feelings I've once accepted, not able to answer them
And now giving them back in the nastiest way possible
Covered in dark bubbles, smelling like death

And I would kneel by the toilet
Throwing up all the things I didn't mean
But said with a smile, hoping you'll be glad
Because we are friends, right?
It leaves bitter taste that stays for days
And I can't help but think

Why do they try to see the darkest part
Where everything is messy and covered in blood
Examination of my fakest smiles leads them to realization
There's something wrong with my heart

And I appreciate that you care, yet
I'm sick of it
I can't handle feelings of others and
That drives me insane, needing more shots
So I could spit all the mess out from my mouth and get rid of it

You really are there when I need
Thanks about that by the way
But you can't heal a bulimian heart
That's sick of all this attention that
You're giving me

It's not your fault, it's just me
Knowing people who get too much attached to me
Will get hurt
So my brain starts fighting against it, leaving my heart with a message

Don't let them in and if you do
Get them out like stomach does
When it can't handle the food
Don't play it nice

Still, I can't help
But don't want to hurt you
Yet you're difficult
So now I'm standing here
Saying these words I've made up
Of what I threw up

I don’t want to ever find myself apologizing to you today I am saying sorry by vomiting today I am saying sorry by not moving today your face is in my hand & I am kissing it today my body expands like lung cancer I am always writing about expanding bodies I am never not vomiting even when I am really not at all last night I got 4 hours of sleep this morning my headache is full of scraped knees today I do not move today I think about kissing you today I think that kissing you would not be very different from kissing a taxi today I think that I want to ignore you & kiss you forever & ever but I cannot do that if you ignore me today my stomach is angry at the world today I am in love with too many people today I am waiting for the world to thank me & I am waiting for an astronaut, a moon, a lit-up screen, ellipses in your rotten mouth, some beestings in my throat

Dead breath came from aching fingers dancing to break barriers in my throat.
Sweetly I choked comfortably on my sadist pleasure...
Each sting was warm and still too kind.
I’d do it again and I’ll gladly pay that fine.
Hair fell swiftly like leaves in autumn...
I was a fool to know this was my rock bottom.
And still I exhale punishment for my grievous crimes
For someone who will never be satisfied.

Dear Sirae,

One. Two. Three. Wait. No. Restart. One. Two. Three. Get it right or do it again. There is no way of gaining happiness without me. Look at you, you’re so foul and huge. ******* disgusting. So do it. Kneel on the cold tile. Feel your hair sweep forward and brush against your face while you bend over. Don’t be weak, push yourself. That wasn’t enough that came up. Again. Again. Again. I own you and you’re not leaving.

- Bulimia

Words,
They could never hurt,
They could never cut,
They could never make you bleed,
Physically.

Words,
A manifestation of self-hate,
Written in bold,
Anorexia, Bulimia, Depression,
I was sold.

Words,
The last,
Written on a bloodstained note,
"I can't stay afloat"

Society is so focused on being flawless.  Perfect.  No one is flawless, not even Beyonce.  We will forget who we are on the inside, and soon that won’t even matter because the physical appearance is the main priority.  Women these days are spending so much effort trying to look perfect, which hurts.  Pretty hurts.  Society is expecting women to look perfect, otherwise people will judge.  ‘Perfection is a disease of a nation’. The showbiz industry is giving a negative message to the world.  Photoshop is one of them.  Making a celebrity look flawless is fooling the world into thinking we must look like that.  Spending so much money on clothes, hair etc. but we don’t need to focus on that because all that matters is on the inside, which most people don’t seem to see anymore.  We are constantly getting the messages in our mind that we must be flawless, and sooner or later, this is a disease.  Some of us can’t take it anymore, which leads to anorexia, bulimia, insecurities, and issues with body image.  Pain also takes over our minds, which is ridiculous.  Even celebrities have gone through this because in our naïve little minds, we are thinking we have to be pretty.  There is so much pressure it takes over our minds, and that’s the only thing we think about.  We look into the mirror despising ourselves, because we are who we are.  Society has created us into thinking there’s a certain way we must look, which there is not.  Our flaws make us who we are, makes us positively different.  Unique.  But we aren’t allowed to think that way because the media isn’t allowing us to.  When people change, they are only cheating on themselves because media displays images of what we should and shouldn’t look like.  It’s not their fault though.  They can’t help it.  Changing, like getting botox or body implant is only giving us a masquerade.  It’s a mask to hide our real, inner beauty, which the media has taken the idea away from us, to become people who we actually aren’t.
And in the end, we know that pretty hurts.
a.a.

Is it really possible for me,
to be what they want to see?
Though I've never done it before its there, the urge
it sit still as stone until violently it screams, "just purge".
The smell off food cooking is like poison yet i eat
and eat
and eat
until all I've done for an hour and a half is eat.
my skin quivers and crawls,
no escape from these four walls.
This house is like a prison cell,
all you can hear is the ringing of a bell,
though logically you no its silent,
but silence is most definitely violent.
And so the struggle begins again
to avoid that horrid gain.

Ive been fat my entire life.
Things I've tried.
B12.
Eating disorders
Bulimia
Obsessive exercise
Dieting
Not dieting
Throwing up
I'm less fat now
My ribs don't show
I wish they would though.

It follows my movements
behind a seashell,
every few steps
it drops the cup
over it's shoulder
prolifically it shifts
positions, so do I,
as slight of hand.

If the secret of love
is buried in his armpit,
and it is, maniacally.
Tho' not the kind
you buy at the movies,
of optimist derringers,
smoking guns.
Still,
flight begins when
the sun goes down
it shifts euphemistic trees
like shadow puppets
into walls of passion,
makes bulimia dreams
of doughnut holes,
something sweet
craving bakery counters
and bagels take up
the lonesome place
still ringing in our ears,
my ears,
placards hanging lobes
of the emotionally distressed,
handicapped dangle
I can't move my tongue
...again.
But, they still hear love
whisper their name
just before
the dawn becomes.
Sunny rising sonic
boom that scatters the birds
all  into synchronized
sign language.
We strain,
to hear them sing anthems
over the roof tops,
it makes us happy to hear
every time,
just one more time.

A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being told to pass on the pumpkin pie
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being scrutinized over everything you ingest
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is being met with questions no matter what you eat or don't eat
"Have some more potatoes, Sarah"
"Haven't you had enough yet?"
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a double standard wrapped up
In a pretty floral bow
Just like the cornucopia in the table's center.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is a broken tradition fixated not on giving thanks
But on her every movement in regards to her plate
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is only eating half her helping
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is throwing up each and every bite of it
Into a porcelain garbage bin exactly thirteen minutes later
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is perfecting a purge
Stand up and lean
Time it just right
Dry heave first.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is the second to last time she sees her grandpa
And she cannot even focus on family
Because this disease has intertwined itself into the crevices of her mind
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is her worst nightmare and her favorite holiday
For she is constantly under surveillance
But no one questions her habits that day
So she is free to be sick as often as she likes.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is counting every calorie
Knowing exactly how much she needs to compensate for every particle of food
Polluting her system.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving is shoving things into her body
And immediately wanting them out
While having the means to get rid of them.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been shared with her alter ego,
Bulimia.
A fat girl's Thanksgiving has always been a paradox
Hopefully this year she will be able to go alone.