"bulimic" poems
I crave emotion like I crave pizza
But I can't have it
I can't let myself devour every ounce of love that comes my way
I can't become dependent on the infamous L word that has broken me
I'm emotionally anorexic,
But sometimes I'm bulimic
Sometimes I'll hunt down my prey, and **** them dry of their love
I'll crave it until I'm stuffed full, and then I'll purge it out
I'll tell them I hate them,
I'll tell them to leave forever
I'll push them away until I'm broken and sad and alone
And anorexic again
Until I'm back where I belong, in the corner of my room
Crying, sobbing, craving affection, but not letting myself have it
Because I don't want to be fat with lust
I can't gain a single pound because if I do
I'll be weak.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 2:40 PM UTC
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
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 10:58 PM UTC
no one knows pain
like
the ones
who
curse their beloveds
and
bleed their heart
dry
like
the ones
who
watch blood bubble up
from wounds
self-made
the ones
who
fill themselves up
just
to empty it all
in a bathroom stall
the ones
who
refuse their meals
and
live for the scale
because
numbers
don't leave
the crying poet
the bleeding cutter
the vomiting bulimic
the starving anorexic
the lost
the empty
the lonely
the unloved
the ones
who
love too much
and
not enough
no one knows pain
like
humans know pain
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 5:58 AM UTC
"Girls shouldn't smoke"
I'm sorry sir, say that again?
Tell that to the 15 year old hispanic girl who sold her virtue under the guidance of the traffic lights to pay off her mother's cancer bills.
Tell that to the wife of a man who
beat
beat
beats her, because some nights she refuses to kneel at his supposed genital altar and confess her sins.
Tell that to the girl who has spent 6 months carving her home address into her forearms, hoping that her Mum would smell the rust and come and rescue her.
Tell that to the girl who was stolenshackleddruggedsold under the consent of her father who used her body as a paycheck to settle his blackjack debt.
To the lonely girl. The ugly girl. The fat girl. The anorexic girl. The bulimic girl. The girl.
"Girls shouldn't smoke."
Tell that to the women who find their prayers in the daily grace that is, nicotine.
Just like men do.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
To die,
To fall,
To lose,
In an act of,
Life-giving,
Spirit lifting,
Victory,
Is simply,
Nonsensical,
And yet,
Perfect,
Completely,
Irrational,
And yet,
Thought out,
And so,
Incomprehensible,
With human mind,
But absolutely,
And definitely,
The right thing to do,
Because God loved the world so much,
He would let his own creation,
Take his only son from him,
To save his creation,
From the hands of evil.
And the best thing?
The most amazing and inconceivable thing of all,
Is that he did it for all mankind.
Athiest
Agnostic
Christian
Jew
Muslim
Sikh
Hindu
Buddhist
Black
White
Straight
Gay
Lesbian
Bisexual
Asexual
Boy
Girl
Bigender
Transgender
Agender
Young
Old
Kind
Cruel
Happy
Sad
Rich
Poor
Healthy
Ill
Free
Enslaved
Safe
Afraid
Intelligent
Stupid
Deaf
Blind
Disabled
Handicapped
Single
Taken
Married
Divorced
Remarried
Widowed
Lost
Found
Persecuted
Persecutor
Murderer
Self-harmer
Suicidal
Unloved
Adored
Popular
Ignored
Beautiful
Ugly
Guilty
Innocent
Outcast
Desperate
Autistic
Bulimic
Alcoholic
Bipolar
Addict
Dyslexic
Anorexic
Schizophrenic
SAVED
Every single human being ever born is saved.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
The walls harbor my secrets
Pink wall paper
Tucks them away as I sleep
Ballerinas dance in my head
I want to be like them
Graceful, thin, light
My secret scrapes at a dinner plate
Longing for more
But begging for less
I want to be her
The girl in my dreams
Who has perfect pirouettes
But when I wake
My knees meet
Bathroom tiles
Bile spills into
A porcelain bowl
I'm not a ballerina
I'm a bulimic
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
I am
An ex girlfriend
An ex bulimic
An ex addict
An ex model daughter
An ex daddy's girl
Yet, all of these things
Have somehow marked an X
On my soul.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:42 PM UTC
I remember the day you left,
It replays so clearly in my mind,
I don't think you knew exactly what you were leaving behind.
Suitcase in hand,
You walked out the door,
You looked back at me and I cried once more.
Tears streamed down my face,
But you just looked away,
Feeling out of place.
You strode out the door,
My pleading made it worse,
'DON'T LEAVE DADDY' I screamed and I heard you curse.
I knew you would regret it,
You were so wrapped up in yourself,
All you wanted was more and more wealth.
You ripped me off,
My mum the most,
You took all our money, from pillar to post.
You weren't there when we needed you most,
When times got hard you just left us to rot,
You didn't give a **** about us, just about what you got.
I used to 'Daddy' little girl' but not anymore,
I refuse to talk to you, communicate even,
I don't even want to see your face, which you don't belive in.
I used to love you,
I used to care,
But those days are over, my heart has been stripped bare.
It is hard for me to trust,
To talk at all,
For I am worried it will all happen again and again I will fall.
I became depressed when you left,
I didn't want to move schools, but you made sure I would,
Paid no money to my mum but we tried as best as we could.
I was 8 when you left me,
Depression took over,
It looked after me, giving me a strong shelter and cover.
Mum got sick but my little brother and I had no idea why,
My mum turned bulimic from the cancer that formed,
Anorexia, Bulimia, Cancer all started to take form.
You don't know how hard it is, how much it hurt,
Being the mother to your brother, and your mum, while trying to be a kid,
I did all the housework, in the end I snapped,
Couldn't take it anymore, I just cracked.
I watched my mum slowly dieing, crumbling, out of my reach,
Although that's just what you wanted isn't it,
To tear us apart bit by bit.
Causing us pain somehow amused you,
Making you happy,
Making me snappy.
Life was hard,
But now I see,
You meant everything but now mean nothing to me...
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 9:01 PM UTC
I used to think,
"Oh I want to be skinny. I want to look like a model."
And then I watched
a childhood friend
deteriorate in front of my eyes
after obsessing over her weight.
She went from this beautiful
young girl
to this hollow,
****** in,
bulimic and anorexic shell.
It's a sad day when you don't recognized someone you've known your whole life
when they walk up to you
in the gas station.
I don't want to be that.
A shell.
So **** being skinny.
**** people who think y
ou need to be thinner.
Just **** society
and
always
be
you.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
god is a murderer
a homosexual
a lover
a poet
a submissive *****
obese
bulimic
god is evil
god is beauty
a man
a woman
a child
a drug addict
an artist
an anarchist
a sexist pig
a mother
a smoker
we are many things
flawed and inconsistent
full of goodness sometimes too
they say we were made in god’s image
do you realize what you are saying?
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 2:48 PM UTC
Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.
stop...
They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.
Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.
stop...
They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.
Then, go home.
stop...
They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.
You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
Letting his pome to Siri
Hopefully will make us 2.[period]
I got it matters what I say
Should probably change it anyway
Still out the 10 at home to Siri
I don't think contacts it should be
Around so cool be made out of me
Still grumbling to choke
So I don't waste too much rope
If anyone doesn't turn out too funny
After the person's coming
Bowman mentioned you running
Three more specific
It's more bulimic
Did everything go a plenty
Wonderwall things are
Fly high above All-Stars
Do you think that it's June,
That there Brazelton blue,
If they held and the press really hard?
So this is the phone from Siri
Not feeling quite weary
To Shay' pasta please process he,
Or just a foster for you' [apostrophe]?
I guess we'll just have to see...
I'm writing this poem through Siri,
Hopefully it won't make us to teary,
I doubt it matters what I say,
she'll probably change it anyway,
Still I'll dictate my poem through Siri.
I don't think complex it should be,
Or else a fool will be made out of me
Still I'll grumble and I'll choke
So I don't raise too much hope
If in the end it doesn't turn out too funny.
After this verse it is coming
A poem that might send you running
Though to be more specific
It's more of a limerick
Than anything full of cunning.
I wonder where wild things are,
That fly high above all the stars?
Do you think that it's true,
That their face will turn blue,
If they held in their breath really hard?
So this is the poem from Siri
And now I'm feeling quite weary
For did I say 'pasta please',
Or just 'apostrophe'?
I guess we'll just have to ask Siri.
7/3/14
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 12:58 PM UTC
They taught me to swim the same way they taught me to ride a bike.
lets see what happens when we push her down a hill, will she balance or bite through her lip?
They locked me in the closet, a suitcase, the trunk of our Toyota Corolla and a cardboard box all because I fit ;)
I walked through her room while she studied for her Calculus Final because it was the only way to get to my room (over and over for attention).
They held me down 3 at a time to play piano on my tummy while I shreked for pure joy and fun.
He gave me a boxing name on our trampoline and let me win. I ate his chocolate in her bed. They thought I was a cat licking itself under the covers.
When he came off the streets he gave me video games, Spyro, Pokemon, Zelda, and Sonic At first I didn't know we were related.
She chased me and my best friend around the house Screaming
Squeeze my buns of steal baby
he never came back.
They held me upstairs while things flew and crashed downstairs forever breaking the lemon squeezer. I cried and he held me, my first memory of him being nice.
She had me live with her 5 days a week 6 years because our parents didn't want to deal, even though she was bulimic. She took care of me but in truth I kept her alive.
They were my first memory, they were there for me, when I was little they were my parents. I jokingly tell people that all my good traits were learned from them.
When they left there was no one left to protect me. All alone, too young to understand them being gone was what made me sad. I was used to having 8 parents and now I have the two that actually gave birth to me.
Haha I say you only have 2. I gave up on them long ago, why would I pick 2 when I have 8?
Forever the 8 of us.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:37 AM UTC
I don't even think there was a trigger this time.
I think it just became a very big relapse
Very very quickly.
Or it is just a big delayed reaction of
Of a certain act of
Valor.
Now I cry through the bulimic tag every night
Like the stupidest ***** this side of the city.
And I fix my breathing with my beautiful ******* razors,
Inside my friend's bathrooms.
I'd rather feel empty,
You have to spend less money on alcohol that way.
A certain act of valor.
Not that I can blame the poor baby,
It was my own fault.
Masochistic you could say.
I don't want to die,
I just want to stop suffering.
Actually,
I just want to suffer.
Actually,
I just want to suffer until I make everything perfect.
Until I'm someone's prize possession.
Suka.
Aug 17, 2013
Aug 17, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
Cheesy eighties shows make me feel like
Being a bulimic alcoholic is a good choice.
Why is everyone so ugly?
That's a confidence booster.
I could cry over the amount of sunlight I see.
I'm like a little warrior,
Standing on a hilltop of daisies,
With a pair of pink, sparkly safety scissors in my hand,
And a smirk of a five year old genius across my face.
Take my hand and tell me I'm perfect,
That my scars are beauty marks,
My absolute beauty is incomparable,
That I'm your china doll.
As you lay me down on your bed,
And let me know that I'm the only girl for you,
This week.
Take away my safety scissors.
Condescend me.
Tell me I do not know what I am talking about.
But I see everything from my daisy hill, you know.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 8:31 PM UTC
Feeling crazier each day.
Schitzoid, Bulimic, anorexic of thinking.
Theories of being an egoist calm my nerves,
But a breakdown is sure to occur.
I am the hero, i own my own brain.
You can jail me. You can stone me, but I'll always be free.
I am not guilty you fat lard ****
cut off your man ****
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
A little slice of the pie
I try to consume but I
throw it up every time.
Bulimic the scenic
route I take.
No mistake I meant to regurgitate.
Choking down lies, smiling like it taste great.
Get another helping of the American pie plate.
Washed down
with whiskey, strong and brown
like the strong and brown brothers
that scalped heads and used skins for covers.
Good morning, America!
Ignore the hysteria.
Pay attention to the sensations
on the surface area
Cap'n crunch
is more important Captains getting crunched
in a 13 year war we started off a hunch.
If you pay attention to the news
notice they ignore the trues
like the flammable water coming from your hose
or the fact you can't afford your children's clothes
We're buying apps and devices for $1200,maybe,
instead of $20 to buy a real ukelele
You see, we pay companies
to do things
because we're conditioned to be
to lazy when DIY was the real American dream.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:21 PM UTC
2018
I gained merely two Kg, the people I considered friends looked at me and said “If you keep doing this you’re going to be fat”, he laughed
The other said “I see you’re on the road to obesity” he smiled.
I only weigh 48 kg.
So I wonder, how long will my insecurities get to me, how long will I break and crumble and stop eating and overwork myself at the gym?
How long will my heart be anorexic and my mind bulimic.
How long till this nervosa be one with me?
Answer: it already happened.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 2:15 AM UTC
Almost every time I ***** I cry. It’s like a habit, a song. Puke, tears. The first time I remember it happening -when I was 9- I sat up straight in bed and vomited all over myself. It stained the mattress and got all over the wall and my bedsheets- projectile stuff. Real nasty. I got out of bed, took off my clothes, went to my mom’s room, and started sobbing. Even at seventeen, I still almost always cry when my stomach betrays me, when the bile mixes with spit and I’m running to the bathroom and seeing stars as I feel pain erupt through my body and out of my mouth and nasal cavity. There’s nothing I can ever do to stop it. And afterwards, I always cry.
Maybe that’s why, when I could tell the friendship was ending, I cried so much that first time. When I could tell we were growing apart and my soul was rejecting you. You were rotten steak and I hadn’t eaten meat in five years. I couldn’t handle you anymore.
Do you ***** when you panic? Is that why there was such an explosion in the middle, bile mixing with bile? You didn’t want me to be mad at you, so you puked on me and gave me a reason to be angry. Yours wasn’t so rotten though, nothing your body couldn’t keep down. Are you bulimic or an emetophobiac? Did it scare you when you couldn’t breathe and you rejected me from your body? Or did you do it on purpose? Afterward, did you cry?
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 12:49 AM UTC
Its the feeling you get when your mind is a war zone, a warped home where grimmy thoughts roam, with no guidance or support zone, your so frightened to fight it on your own. More poems of suicide and self harm, you ever dreamt you died and felt calm? Just a truant mind with health crimes, help cant cure a ruined life in Hell's palms. You fell in to a ditch and because of it popping bottles of pills that you mixing your ***** with, then nodding off a bit picturing god and all of it, a doctors on the phone telling you to ***** it. Consistently monitored, the alcohol, the quiting , the six, seven seizures, its the moment a schizophrenic freezes, hearing a voice that whispers when it pleases, the vigilant bulimic, the obsessive and compulsive,the bipolar mood swing and stomach ulcers. Its the hidden issues that the medicine alters. Its the judgmental that the depression repulses ,the anxiety, the psychs with the notes, the post traumatic stress and the vices to cope. The prices of dope,the ice in the pipe that you smoke. The knife the rope, the temptation of slicing your throat. Its the stigma determined to scare you, when the bourbon your served is your urgent repairer. When not feeling nervous becomes rarer and your mom quits her job to become your permanent carer. Its the psychotic episodes, the days that you lost seeking help, but being crazy isn't something I am ashamed to admit, so stay strong anybody who relates to this, please.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 9:58 PM UTC
i wish i were a chemist,
so that i could hypothesize
& limit my attempts &
my experiments in futility
so that maybe, I could
tell you that your mere
presence was a catalyst
to my volatile elements
provoking reactions,
left & right, endless
explosions in my head
& mostly, in my chest
or that you tasted like a
antidote to the mundane
bringing me back from
this quiet complacence
i could drink your tonic,
swallow your smoke,
& devour your scraps
like a starving bulimic
or how your poison
made me slip, drip like
mercury, through your
skillful & soft fingertips
like sodium, this persistent
salt that refuses to quit
from my veins, a reserve
remains after the detox
or why i would oscilliate
between the alkaline &
the acidic, never quite
stabilizing at a safe degree
if i had know all this,
i would not have played
alchemist, concocting
a worthless elixir of life
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
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 hard on, 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.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
I eat and purge my relationships like a pro bulimic. I have a unique gift of attracting the most broken of individuals, truly an extremist.
Crazy, violent, addicted, on the run, think they are moon babies banished to live on the sun, AND always saying, “Hey baby you’re my number one". AND even though I know better than to ride on the coattails of crazy, I convince myself I’m actually a someone to anyone. Like I give a **** So then what’s the fuckin' hang up?
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:43 PM UTC
Who would I be if perfection is not attained?
A total failure.
Nothing but the absolute best is expected of me.
No room for errors.
One mishap and my world implodes and
Hell fire incinerates the satisfaction of my previous
Successes, meaningless if not prolonged.
Oh, rescue me from my acute addiction to praise.
I need you to tell me how excellent my work is,
Or else I will relapse into insomnia, kept awake
By my reeking incompetence.
I need you to remind me how wonderful I am,
Since achievement equates to my identity.
Strip away the accolades and I am a carcass
Starved by my bulimic tendencies.
Never sated. I must do better. I must be better.
I want to make you proud.
I want to be worthy.
Can’t you see? I live for your approval!
Some say you learn from mistakes,
That they help build character.
Ha! Mistake? What is that? Sounds disgusting.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 7:12 AM UTC