My nutritionist told me I need to increase my caloric intake and eat more carbs. I asked my nutritionist, “aren’t carbs bad for you?”
She said, “No. Carbs are not bad for you, carbs are an immediate energy source for your body to use, what’s bad for you is not eating enough and passing out at the end of the day like some ***** *****. Now eat some carbs and get some meat on those bones before I order you a ******* pizza myself.”

I should mention that my nutritionist is also my best friend. I call her Lady Reptar, because she is one. A lady, not a reptar, even though she’s twenty times more awesome than a dinosaur and fifty times nicer. She’s beautiful like a ******* daisy in the woods and she’s sharp and wittier than her cooking knives and she’s warmer than her father’s woodstove.

"So, do poppy seeds count as protein?"

the doctor said i have a fatty liver
so i started drinking straight *****
to cut down on carbs

to the the girls who starve themselves,
the ones that watch their carbs,

you want to feel adored
you´re personality is fading
they´ll eventually get bored.

while striving for more
you settle for less

you can´t seem to love yourself
step on the scale, there go a few numbers
along with your happiness

thin mints
thin lines
thin ice
"get thin now for the low price of
your soul and entire indisposable income"
thinning hair
thinning patience
thinning shears
"wow what an amazing deal!"


i'll take it

drip... drip ..drip
feel the cold water
hit your empty stomach
just take little sips
stomach growls lull me to sleep
i don't like a full stomach
i don't care that it makes me weak
i don't see a cookie
i see 120 calories
22.8 g carbs, 14.4 g sugar
this is my daily life I'm not a rookie
water has zero grams
of sugar,carbs and calories
so I drink water
i have water for dinner
and for a snack
i avoid the scale
i don't weight myself anymore
cause it makes me feel more like
a beached whale
i don't eat breakfast
i eat one meal at 3pm
some people notice so
i just lie and say I'm fasting...

Have some more scones with jam and cream,
And a mound of spuds for tea,
Then you'll find your obesity,
With them carbs will be your mortality,
It is your responsibility,
To limit your own gluttony,
There are, indeed, bad calories,
Carboholics eat too much, you see!

I stare into the half length,
double wide vanity that sits
poised in my two bathroom home.

It's reflection of me, naked and
unrefined, are often and unmistakingly
disappointing. But, no longer.

I will embrace my scars of battle. I
will soak in the curves and crevices
of the weight I carry with me.

Counting carbs and chasing carrots
with salad day after day were never
really even my style.

Health. Happiness. Heart. Those
are what matter. Cliche, yes. But true:
A number on a scale is nothing.

I clutch my sides and embrace the
mountains that ridge and peak
laterally on my canvas.

I embrace my full bust and curvy
thighs with earnest demeanor. I
am an image of me. Nearly 20.

No longer will I hold my head low
at a passing glance. I refuse to hide
in clothes too large to disguise my shape.

Beauty is who you are. It's not what
you look like according to the golden
ratios or whatever the hell "they" say.

I haven't seen you in a few days
But I got the update today
He told me all about how desperately
you want to die
As the words exited his mouth
I felt the pit in my stomach caving in on itself
And begging for a bottle of ***
A pack of cigarettes
And a loaf of bread
But don't panic!
I didn't eat any bread

My mom says,

"You look beautiful today"
She asks "have you lost any weight honey? Here's a salad before you go to work.
You dont want to get fat"

Mom says, life is always easier for skinny girls and that I haven't had it easy so maybe my weight is the problem.

I tell her I'm comfortable.
But as I walk away, I find myself gazing into my bedroom mirror pinching at the fat on my stomach
Wishing it was nothing but paper, because then I could cut it off and maybe then I would be happy and maybe then my mom would think I was good enough.
Mom says, "those leggings aren't flattering on you. And don't you know what people will say about you if you walk around dressed like that? Hide your body. Hide your curves, the world doesn't need to see your fat seeping through those nylon pants. "

I yell back " I don't care what you think! I LIKE THEM"
Mom says "yes you do, I know you do. Now go change and come eat your salad."

I force feed myself a salad for the 5th time this week and change into a baggy sweatshirt and some sweatpants.

I want to believe that I don't care what she thinks but her words feel like bee stings prickling my entire body and no matter how many times they attack, I don't grow numb to them.

I weighed myself today, I lost 5 pounds this week but im starting to feel sick from hunger, I'm light headed.

I head downstairs, the thought of inhaling every carb we have in the kitchen because it's been 2 weeks since ive had one and the cravings are too strong.

Just as I'm about to make some pasta mom comes into the kitchen.

"You look amazing," she says.
"You're so beautiful hunny I'm so proud of you. Wait... is that pasta? What are you doing? If you eat that you'll get fat again. If you're fat you won't be happy. You can't be happy. Put that down. Here's a pill for you hunny"

Take it when you're hungry, it'll take away the cravings and surpress your appetite.

I take the stupid pills that mom seems to think work like magic and I go back up to my room, staring at this body of mine that doesn't feel like mine anymore.

I hate myself.
I hate that I want to eat carbs and I hate that I dream of sugar every night.
I hate that my mom thinks I need a pill to fix who I am, as if I am unlovable when i am not losing weight.
Even as her daughter.

Growing up, we're always taught that our mothers are our protectors...
But I realize now my mother is the reason I never feel like I'm good enough.
I never feel like I'm loveable.

Mother's are suppose to make their daughters feel beautiful and empowered.

I spent my entire childhood on a diet.
To this day, I still hear her voice in my head.
Have a salad honey.
It will be easier if you're skinny.
Change into something else.

I wonder, if this will follow me forever.
If I will always be haunted, by my mother's shame.

I promise though,
If I ever have a daughter,
I will empower her to love herself no matter what.
I will teach her that love isn't based on your waist size and neither is acceptance you can find love at 400 pounds the same way you can at 130 pounds.
I will teach her she is beautiful.
I will make sure that when she grows up, she's not afraid to touch pasta, or have a sweet.
I will teach her, no matter what, SHE IS LOVEABLE. And so are you.. And so am I... I think...

.                          
                                6mg Fat
                             11mg Carbs
                           150 mg Protein
                            7% of  US  RDA
                            Potassium and
                             3%   US   RDA
                             zinc and   cop
                             per.  It is both
                             Pre ven tative
                             and fights can
                             cer. Particular
                             ly. breast  can
                         cer.  Only 20 calories   .      
                per    serving!      ingestion of
               seminal    pla       sma          is
                  called *****      ophagia

~~~
my diet of ideas
is without carbs
that convert to saccharine;
a life filed by the pauses of milky hot coffee sips,
these are the protein compositional periods,
in my otherwise,
stuttering life

when they come to me,
these escapades of poems~moments
'tis the only nutrition this man needs

Sweet baby,
split-pea soup.
croissant carbs,
sliced tomato,
onion crisp, and
spinach greens-
ooh avocado,
please!

look out the
kitchen window,
my dog's head in
the compost pit!
"LIBBBBBYY!"
homemade soup on the back-burner

******, scratch it,
there ain't even any
tomatos or onion to
throw on this french
bread!
ohh, but mama,
let's get real,
since when was
there ever any
money for all these
S.Pellegrinos!?

I'm not complaining,
and I know ain't
isn't a word,
but for Christ Sake!
Being home is always
wild.

To sit by the fire,
or to be a free-running
child?

I can't even make lunch
without getting excited,
and documenting my odd
life.

Could have made that Bumble-Bee-
solid white albacore,
or Skippy,
squeeze that Skippy-
it's the skippy you squeeze!
Figured I'd go a little
more home-made today.

How long will it be
'till Mama starts asking
for rent?

All those Doctor bills,
wild insurance-
you slay me!
Mental health,
Hunterdon and Rutland,
you really did me deep.
And to keep paying those
Doctor's with those degrees,
sheesh!

Rode my bike to the TDBank,
to take out the last of what I
had, for Mama.
Talk about hell on two wheels!

So now my choices can be narrowed-
Do I hit the restaurants and do
the night shifts, waitressing in
that filthy grease?
Do I get a portfolio and try to model,
without Mama's approval?
I sure do have one impressive
resume, but this state wants to
take my license away.

My student loans are
in over my head, here
at least there's a futon
and a warm bed.
Chicago means an air mattress and
Vegas screams something I can't really
be too sure about.

I guess it's true, home
is where the heart is.
Home is where my toes
are warm and where my lunch date,
Libby, never leaves my side.

This U-turn situation,
it's not so bad. Yeah, sure,
I was supposed to be in Utah,
canyoneering. And this New Year's,
I would have, should be, could have been
backpacking through Nepal-
a dream.
Sometime I just get a little sad.

So I'll read some books,
watch some films,
give Libby her beef-flavored
pain-killer pills,
and pray for a pretty little
white-christmas miracle.

Halfway up a mountain
on an ice-bound January day,
I sought to reliquify
a few calorific assets.

I am no fool -
I had been carefully investing
a portion of each meal
in certain holdings
(mainly around the waist).
Of course, I knew the safe route:
balanced diet, carbs, fruit, veg;
but a venture nutritionist such as myself
pays little heed to such extravagant prudence.

Fried breakfasts looked like offering
a quick and reliable payoff
and sure, for a while it worked.
But guess what:
Just when I needed the big windfall,
nothing.
Not a sausage,
if you'll pardon the pun.

"Sorry," a regretful body explained,
"I know you'd think you could call on your investments
"at the drop of a hat,
"but actually they're kind of clogged,
"a bit like your arteries."

Wheezing, waiting
for the mountain rescue helicopter,
I spared a rueful thought
for the taxpayer -
the reluctant buyer
of my safety.

You might imagine I owe something in return,
but I watch the news
and I reckon
I'll get away with it.

only today i felt this strange fear from boredom, i don't expect housewives to feel it, although i'm certain they do, brain-draining watching some Jurassic adaptation where man's imagination really did a runner - not into the fantastical but into the absurd - like in science fiction, did a runner, completely off the mark given chemists making shampoos and toothpastes and fertilisers... ethically-free science fiction - but this housebound fear from boredom, greater than a fear of death it seized me and rattled me, i had to go out to buy a few beers; just like it happens to really rich people, they make their homes into micro-units of what's out there, in society, a swimming pool when there's a communal one elsewhere, a massive library of unread books, when there are plenty of those elsewhere, home cinema, snooker table... it's the entire spectrum of social pastimes condensed into a single household... anyway, i got hot and bothered, i'm starting to think it was not a fear of boredom, but what to do with the piri-piri chicken i was marinating: tomato puree, 1tbsp balsamic vinegar, half a large lemon squeezed, 1sp sugar, 1tsp paprika, 1/2 tsp cajun pepper, 14g of parsley, mint, oil, 2 chillies, 2 tsp of garlic puree, salt to taste - whisked in a food processor; ~1kg of chicken - because i thought whether i should shove the chicken marinate in an oven bag and cook it for a while, or whether to take the chicken out from the marinate and place it on a baking tray... ****!

poems and book reviews these days, nothing more,
get someone else to do the legwork -
a thoroughly modern malaise -
social anthropology - titled *tribe -
the pros and cons of modern life and our
search for tribal mythology -
the 8x more chance of depression and
other mental deviations in wealthier
societies than poorer ones -
once it was called adventure, now
it's called tourism - after a while you sort
of get bored of the naked ego
and the clothing range your thought
provides you - unless you keep thinking
out the same thing, over and over again,
dressed like Armani, all black, nothing else -
odd, isn't it? they're playing the cat game,
cat wakes up, same ****, different cover,
well, the same cover - same fur - can't
change - the paradox or parody of
the fashion industry, i.e. that the designers
wear the same thing over and over again
and insist people require a spring collection,
the latest autumn trend.... parody.
so back to this piri-piri chicken      n'ah, not really,
i was thinking about what we already did,
this anti-tribalism, to have given ourselves
the opportunity to experience the least
amount of pain, the anaesthetic, sleep inducing
on the butcher's table more or less -
but we also created another anaesthetic,
this anaesthetic is not so subtle - it concerns beauty -
ever see it? ever walk into Tate Modern and
think about Raphael or Michelangelo?
you could tell me i'm overly nostalgic -
but what i see in plain sight is an anaesthetic in place,
against beauty, esp. in architecture -
who'd think of building a new Coliseum or
a St. Paul's - the Tate Modern (as you might
or might not know) is inside a power station,
big massive chimney - would have worked
better in the Battersea (Pink Floyd's Animals
album sleeve), but then St. Paul's is right opposite
and what a staggering dichotomy it is -
i'm sure that's what you call an anaesthetic in art,
the sort of art you have to get or not get
because, frankly, admiring a tin-can of tomato soup
even by Warhol's standards isn't exactly appetising -
i know, conveyor belt necessity and all, once
artists painted on commission for some duke or
duchess, or king to be adorning lavish palaces,
but as according to Walter Benjamin - the work
of art in the age of mechanical reproduction -
some could once claim the original to be worth
a stupendous amount of dosh, but with the above
mentioned essay, the original is worth diddly-squat,
because there is no actual original these days,
because artists don't necessarily have to invest
in raw materials - and the copying process is 100%
perfect, what with photocopying and all...
but **** me over once more, how am i going
to cook this piri-piri chicken?
the few beers took the problem off my hands,
i ended up marinating the chicken in a bag
but then shoved it into a baking tray
an covered with aluminium foil, forty odd
minutes and the chicken was tender - ~5 minutes
without the aluminium foil covering while
the oven was switched off and the temperature
was descending - the carbs? couscous -
alt. North African semolina - and extra cucumber
in tzatziki - a few hours later and i'm a little
buddha not thinking an ounce or a continent's worth
of suggestion... one of those rare albums
salmonella dub's  inside the dub plates,
i'm a real provincial with this album,
tumble **** here, tumble **** there,
never settling for a ****-garden -
i told you i'm just borrowing the language, in fact,
given my alcoholic and status as vermin among
the bulldog rigid British (Londoners can have
their little gay pride parade, whatever, they
better give me up for surgery to a veterinarian than
a human doctor, after all, i'm all ******* gerbil from
now on in, it doesn't take enough pacifists to turn
my attitude into a Neo-**** and bulldozer the Union
Jack into a shallow grave, i don't expect the Caribbeans
and the Pakistanis to usher words of: it's how it is,
a rite of passage, **** your cumin and your ****,
battle of Britain, who among the R.A.F. flew and spat fire?
us) i'm more Apache in a bigger zoo than the one in
Reagents Park, i'm in a conservation zoone -
i'm Aboriginal - shaman of the fire water -
i'll be as ******* ridiculous as i want - go chant
you little kirtan get together mantras going,
i'm sure you'll *****-fight-those-pigeons dead without
a single coo being ushered in - and your little yoga stints
asking questions about the flexibility of the skeleton
not pulverised by scientific eyes for a schematic and
a schooling rubric to domino up the cranium with mandible,
ulna and radius etc. -
but at least i know what sort of country i live in,
and what country is wandering into political apology that's
too late, in ratio 27:1, soon to be Turkey + the Yugoslavian
gape, Albanian and Macedonia by 2020 -
>30:1 - great Welsh ratio that is, oh ****, wait, Scotland too?
i never thought about it coming - there's my 2 cents
on the topic, and that England is becoming more American
by the day? that's good? really?! i thought the
aim of England was to inspire America rather than
vice versa... what a ****-storm these few days ended
up being; ol' McDonald didn't have a farm, but
had the slogan - *i'm lovin' it!

11am

today i was sluggish

I ran a 6:45 mile

Beat my mile time

Benched 235

New max on bench

Almost have an eight pack

And somewhat feel unhappy

I've adjusted

My body is a temple

That society and culture busted

Warped by mocking of blemishes and dimples

Six pack well built

I fall in that circle

Mal nourished till I tilt

Collapses when i turn purple

Guided by past achievements

Visions of success

To forget what belief meant

Gain mass the more you digest

Calories, Carbs, and proteins

Vitamins, liquid, and BCAA's

Work hard

Workout harder

Appreciate where you were like other would if they are you

We are all victims turned into the very perpetrator we rejected

Look in the mirror

Change or accept

Fight or conform

Satisfy pleasure or  live in comfort

To be honest

I haven't felt a reason to be happy

I appreciate when times are good

But I'm still not happy

And i refuse to ruin someone's day

Or hid my emptiness behind a smile

And until I find what I am looking for

Tomorrow at 9am

I'll be at the gym

"You're so thin, what's your secret?"
It isn't cutting out carbs,
My secret isn't a diet in a magazine,
My secret is hidden under baggy sweaters,
My secret is the scale hidden under clothes in my closet,
My secret is exercising until I pass out,
My secret comes from feeling fat every second even when I'm being begged to gain weight by doctors,
My secret is placing my entire self worth on a number and the belief that others judge me by the same numbers,
My secret is a voice that is always yelling at me, telling me I take up too much space and need to be sick to be acceptable,
My secret is looking in the mirror at all the weight I think I've gained since the last time I looked, an hour before,
My secret is the desire to slice my fat right off,
My secret is the hidden food in my dresser that I told my mom I was taking for lunch,
My secret is hidden at the bottom of toilet bowls,
It's an empty laxative package,
It's fainting every time I stand up too fast,
It's numbers. It's all numbers. Calories. Pounds. Kilograms. Clothing sizes. Calories. Inches. BMI. Calories. It's counting, recounting, then deciding I don't desire it anyway.
It's striving for the lowest number, to have the lowest number, to be the lowest number,
My secret is comparing myself to everyone I see and always thinking I'm worse,
My secret is turned down coffee dates, parties, and sleepovers because there will be food there,
My secret is the word "fat" carved into my inner thigh with a blade from a pencil sharpener,
My secret hides behind every "no thanks I'm allergic" "I'm vegan" "I can't have gluten" and "I already ate",
It's being told curves are beautiful and nobody wants to date a skeleton but still not being able to believe it,
My secret is paranoia that everyone is trying to make me fat,
My secret is having nightmares of eating an almond then waking up with a racing heart and panicking,
You want to know my secret?
My secret is in the tenth grade my bmi was lower than my age,
My secret was tears shed in hospital beds,
My secret is being begged by everyone I love to just have a bite,
My secret is being afraid of eating fruits or drinking water because I think it'll make me fat,
My secret is getting on scales then off of them then on them then back off and still not trusting it,
My secret is a constant demand to be thinner with no point that will ever be enough,
My secret is that the only curves I want are the curves my ribs would make poking through my skin,
My secret is squeezing my fat until my nails pierce my skin,
My secret is feeling like I'm being suffocated by my own body,
My secret is dizzy days and cold skin,
My secret is that even through years of therapy I can't get the same amount of satisfaction from any person or accomplishment as I can from losing weight,
My secret comes from every hit from my mom, from every nasty word spoken by the girls who thought I wasn't good enough, from every guy's touch I didn't ask for,
I didn't get thin due to having willpower,
I got thin from becoming powerless
to a mirror that will never tell me I'm good enough until I'm dead.

Be happy alone (but be happier with a man).
Be sad, (but don't show it).
Be stupid, be smart, fall for all of our plots.
Be this! Be that! Be YOU!
(Be just unique enough that you are just like our other 1,000,000 readers).

Laugh a lot with your perfectly straight teeth.
(Don't let them see the stains from the acid that creeps).
Lose it, curb it, fight it, crunch it, boost it, control it.
**** him, tease him, **** him, blow his mind
(but don't be a ****, because nobody likes a stupid ****).

You're not wearing the right jeans,
You're not wearing the right shirt,
(But they'd probably look better if you followed these steps to lose 5 pounds in 5 days)
((and dyed and cut your hair))
(((and put your makeup on just right)))

love yourself (just enough to lose yourself,)
because then,
then you are on the path to improvement.
you are one step closer to that
(hand selected, perfectly manicured, potentially, possibly, probably starving)
model,
(who is still not quite good enough to make it without photoshop).

Because Kate Moss tells me,
“Nothing taste's as good as skinny feels,”
and maybe she's right.

Because this fat doesn't sit quite right,
it lumps and bumps. It muffin tops.
It's sloppy, I'm lazy, I eat too much
Maybe I should cut my carbs
and meat
(and everything in between)

Because my size 8 self is plus size to the ones that control my mind.
Because to be a plus is really a negative,
and to be a zero really means that I'm a ten.
Because to be skinny is to succeed.
And to succeed is to win.
And winning is all part of the system, right?

So, yes Cosmo, I'll pluck and shave.
I'll flirt and curl
I'll cut and count
I'll smile and cry
I'll **** and blow
I'll smoke my eyes and cover up my zits
I'll use my mirror to photoshop out every flaw that makes me beautiful
and maybe, maybe someday I'll be just as lifeless as the girls in your magazine.

cup me in some sweet condolences
leave me dusted in saccharin
after honey licks

there on your lips
autumn burst fruits
and
bruises

my blush of knowing
too much
my rush of tasting
enough
to be hooked on your liqueur

lips. granulated resistance
spent.
echo.
fullness empties,
echo.
post
coitus tristesse,
echo

sugar the fruits'
echo

it's soaring through flaming green hills
your heart races with the curiosity of discovery
it's dancing on a secluded mountaintop
with the drunken energy of a motorino zipping.
it's the endless time spent laughing
lips tingling with wine and philosophy
furiously awaiting l'autobus
and saying basta to the pasta.
the hazelnut aroma of hot cappuccini,
and suddenly you have the bravery
to get lost alle tre in Trestevere.
it's watching sunrays part mountains and Corinthian columns
and sparkling on salty waters
and you inch toward the edges of cliffs
just to catch a glimpse.
it's the comfort of friends and Nutella
when Ryanair lands and Rome becomes Home
and life, and death, and carbs follow you.
it's the homeless and the hungry
sleeping in the strong arms of St. Peter
and disappointment and shame
consumes you.
it's sobbing when you are alone,
foreign, and strange
and sobbing when it's time to say
arrivederci
it's when you fall, your stupid heel caught between cobblestones
that you realize you're in love.

They tell us to accept the skin we're in,
But how can I accept what society makes feel like a sin?
Gross to be bigger than a size one or two,
Does that sound realistic? Not to me, to you?
Purged souls on countless carbs of animosity,
The taste of self hate rich and buttery.
Magazines don't help, if only looks could ****,
Girls are starving and dying, I promise you not just for the thrill.
Hated and disgusted by their very own reflection,
Don't try and stop them it's a battle you'll never win.
Only bones can make them happy,
White porcelain devils flush their dignity gladly.
True selves lost with every vigorous flush,
The feeling so high, their own personal rush.
With every single flush they soon fade away,
Ask me how I know,
I was once that way.

The streak in my hair fades to crystal blue
Birds chirp and sing outside my window
The smoothie I made has a million ingredients
I don't know if I'm alone in our 3 bedroom
I ate for free today at work
Had the left overs for dinner
Everything requiring hundreds of dollars piles up high
My parents live and breathe and love me, though they will always expect more
(This is why I will always sort of believe I am never good enough)
I'll always wish I had known better with insert him
Philly continues on without me
I'm happier in Chicago than I was there
I have yet to meet "my person"
I wonder everyday, multiple times a day
If he exists
Since I was a kid, I've always believed I would be assassinated someday
My childhood friend Anna and I use to put on nonverbal sketches to music, playing out that very thing.
It was dramatic and dumb
And so rawly stunning.
I'm a freak in the sheets.
But there is nothing quite like making love.
I wake up every morning and get on the computer
But first, coffee.

I never meant to get into filmmaking
It was an accident.
I don't miss my ex, but I'd like to break his neck
I grow more and more apathetic with my feelings towards him
Each and everyday
I no longer mark out the days
But he haunted me everywhere I went Friday night.
I got caught up in perhaps, the wrong people when I first moved here
I'll always love them.
My parents still help me with money but I pray to end that
I'm the busiest I've ever been
I ate carbs today
And a chocolate popsicle yesterday
One of my girlfriends ate strawberry
It was cute.

One of my past lovers texted me a lot on Friday
(I didn't care but liked the attention)
There are so few men I'm sincerely interested in
I watch the numbers of the money I earn disappear
I miss my old friends but new ones grow
I've been here for almost a full year
I'm still figuring out who I am
Every. Day.
I finally do and say
Almost exactly as I would want.
A good friend of mine really hurt me recently with her criticism
(She did it out of love. But it was brutal)
I recover.
When a new man comes into my life, I'm scared for them to see me without make up for the first time<---a product of my upbringing and who I am.
I throw on whatever I want for clothes everyday and pay very little heed to what others would wear if they were me
I want more tattoos
I don't want to cut all my hair off anymore (as of the moment.)
My film drops and will be screened all around Chicago in mere weeks
My room mate has a much higher standard of living than me
My other room mate acts like a mouse.

I'm planning a road trip with two of my closest, newest friends
Whenever people try to own me or tell me what to do, I run.
(Literally.)
(I once ran away from my entire family in Disney World)
I spent all day being "lost"

One of my ex boyfriends lives in my old apartment with his girlfriend, it is and will always be ******* weird.
(I never really loved him but I tried to.)
My eyes work like a camera
I find myself thinking more about your new girl than you.
My dreams have always been short films
I miss my brothers
Our lives could not be more different
I want to have children
I might want to get married
But I refuse to wear white
I don't want a relationship. Not now. Not for a while.
I'm so drained, I have nothing to give other than presents
(Presence)
I'm on the IUD
I never know when I (gasp) bleed anymore
So I claim to be in a perpetual state of:
"I'm on my period?"
I worry that everyone is mad at me
(All. The Time.)
I'll always be the queen bee
(Don't even have to try.)
I retrace and go back to words exchanged, find the badness in it
It is the small interior death of me
I'm the skinniest I've ever been
I love the way my body looks
(And saying that scares me that others would find me vain)
Sometimes I pretend to like my body less to make others comfortable
Its easier to act small and shy
But I'd really rather rebel.
I miss my grandmother
(She died.)
Its time to move.
Change is always good to me.
I easily adapt
I have introduced myself and put myself out there, on my own
So. So. SO. Very much. The reward of that vulnerability
Has been so ******* plentiful.
I wish I could alter things a bit
But the struggle is so beautiful
Things are about to take off
But I'm so sick of saying that.
**** it.

I'm always tired
I love being alone.
I canceled all my plans today after work because I wanted to be with myself
(This is a thing I so deeply cherish.)
I miss theatre.
But I also really don't.
My **** got stolen Friday night
Another agent wanted to sign me, but she recommended I grow patient and give it 6 months
I look around and see who really has my back.
I am an extremely paranoid, sensitive person
I make art and it is like therapy
(I once had a co-worker who tried to steer me away from this and pit me against a best friend. She failed.)
I wear a uniform to one of my day jobs. I hate it.
(Khaki and brown)
I would rather find gems at a thrift store than drop $200 on one blouse
My dress for the premiere looks like a goddess gown
It is mothers day
I miss Alabama
I woke up with pink eye this morning
One of my girlfriends wants to move back home
(She is one of very very favorites. Lets hope she sticks it out.)
The first year is always the hardest.
Its always hard.
Highest highs. Lowest lows.

I bring light into every situation
And for once
I'm allowing myself to really
Own that.

Purge.
I purge myself of the fat I girl I was and
Hope to be no more
Purge.
I purge myself of the carbs I just devoured
Longing to see a lesser number on a scale.
Purge.
I purge myself of all the “I would never do that” comments
Of a girl with a good head on her shoulders.
Purge.
I purge myself to be the ideal girl
With the hourglass figure.
Purge.
I purge myself of all the warnings I’ve heard
Knowing that I’m destroying my interior
Hoping to have the ideal exterior
Purge.
I purge myself of my meals,
But in reality I’m ridding myself of guilt
Purge.
I purge myself of the fat girl I used to be
In hopes of being the girl, the world wants to see.
Purge.

You are a ******
For happiness

You don't believe me
Do you?

You think, nah,
I'm clean.
Sober, even.

Well, you're wrong.

When you were young,
You got a taste of it.
                                                          Happiness.
And it was pure.
It was innocent.
And it was the best
You've ever ******* felt
In your whole entire life.

It came in many forms.

Sledding with your older brother,
In the mountains of magic
Glittering snow
That you would only grow
To hate
Over the years
The back breaking, black ice
*******
You had to salt and shovel
Weeks on end
Enough to wage a war
With nature

But then, back then,
You were happy with snow.
Maybe even
In love with it.

You got a taste.


Your favorite ice cream bar
Every lick.
Insatiable. Delicious.
The perfect ending
To a gorgeous summer afternoon.
Of course,
As the months peeled away
You'd learn that
Ice cream makes you fat
And sugar is a disease
Before you know any better
You're counting calories
And carbs
And pounds
And inches
And everything becomes
A ******* number
Suddenly you focus so much
On your body
That you lose your soul

But then, back then,
It simply didn't matter.
You were only a kid.
With a sweet tooth.

You got a taste.


Your mother's arms
Warm, welcoming
You could tell her any secret
And she would fight off
Every demon
Chase the closet monsters away
And craft a dream catcher
For all those nightmares
Then the days crack apart
Your calendar flips over the decades
And the woman with the title
Mother
Is nothing more than a stranger
You can't even remember her age
Anymore
Torn apart by trivial fights
Over mall money
And curfews
Mother?
What mother?
You have no mother,
Only a **** with shared DNA.

But then, back then,
It was blissful
Her kisses were the only medicine
You needed

You got a taste.


And now,
You spend your whole life
Searching for the
Glitter in the snow
And the heaven
In the ice cream
And the warmth
In your mother's arms

But
Everything is dull now
But
It's all bad for you
But
Her arms are six feet under

Happiness.
You are a ******
You are addicted

And you will never get your fix

Because all you ever got
Was a taste

Just enough to keep you searching
                                                                   But never satisfied.

                                                     ­                                                       *  You got a taste.

You say, "I ate so much I want to go anorexic"
You don't know
but I'm anorexic
I'm a loose cannon
Doctor says I'm gonna die any day now
but I can't stop
All I think about is food, and calories,
and how good my hip bones would look if I was only 5 pounds lighter
I have no friends anymore.
But I'm surprised.
Even I hate me.
Even I don't want to hang out with me.
I have no life besides sitting at home thinking about carbs
As dead as I look from the outside I feel more dead inside
As cold as I am all the time, my heart is colder.
So don't you dare say you want this life
Don't say this is desirable
Because its not..


I hate myself.
If only I was skinnier...

they say everyone has a personal hell on earth
will you laugh if I tell you mine is a bathroom
because the peeling white wall and concrete floor
close in and whisper “more more more more”
as I shove a plastic spoon down my throat
salad, carrots and humus, cheerios
unplanned nibbles and a full stomach
send me down the stairs into the quiet empty room
where the window is blurred
just like my eyes
as they fill while I empty
“these are the depths”
I tell myself
this is the place where I find new lows
and just when I think I finally reached rock bottom
the toilet responds with a shovel
“keep digging”
an empty stomach and dead eyes
smiling but only my mouth muscles twitch
an odd sensation, an odd response to the compliment
“you’ve lost weight!”
I am more naked in this prison
than I ever am undressed with nameless boys and forgotten faces
as *** replaces carbs
and more “friends” like my photos on facebook
because I never have to sleep alone
but one minute in my Siberia feels like lifetimes of solitude
that no gently touch
or quick ****
can ever compensate for
where is the key that lets me out?
I’ve searched my esophagus but it only leaves me with ****** noses
it must be somewhere else inside of me
unrelated to the number on the back of my jeans
for I feel it in me
something is telling me to stop
it’s like a lump of innate love
that shakes its head every time I bend over
the demons (my demons) are drowning my mom’s voice
“I pray it gets better” she cries over the phone
but your rosary beads are choking me
because there is no God in this incandescent purgatory
but sometimes
I see myself reflected in the shallow water
which reminds me that I am more
than what I contribute to the sewer system
I leave the bathroom still searching for the light
at the far, far end of the tunnel

ima Docter Jedingaling
and i have news thats so great its
ok
the sun wont blow up to day
and aleins wont eat ourr brains
probably
actually
aleins would only want to eat mah brains
because im smarterer that everyone
and smarterer brains are the tastiest
and full of calcium
and protein
and nutricous fats
and carbs
and starches
and vitamins
and minerals
and potassium
and sodium
and prunes
and fiber
and brainy stuf
and thoughts
and uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh­hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh­hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh­hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

stuf that ur brain doesnt have
trust me ima docder
that might be  eaten           by aleins
but they wont
cause i ate my prunes to day
with mah PhD
cuz a used it like a spoon

I don’t have time
For this young man’s disease
They told me it was Type II, at first.
“The good one.”
The “one for fat people.”
Medical jargon.

Not even three months later.
“Your body is tearing itself apart.”

Type 1.
A1c.
Glucose monitor.
Metformin.
Spironolactone.
Crying.
Writing down numbers.
Going to doctors.
And a ***** on the finger
Two times a day.

And if that ***** is a little high, a little low, and not juuuuust right,
I take a pill.
And I turn a dial.
And I stick a needle in the part of my body I never want to pay attention to:
The fatty part.
And my mom calls me worried every day.


Counting carbs instead of calories
And trying to wake up early to do a half hour of yoga before life keeps spinning and spinning.
Trying to “meal prep.”
I rarely succeed.

I don’t usually tell the truth….
I’m doing better.
But Sometimes I forget on purpose.
Because it’s annoying.
And I’m tired.
And then I’m shaking
And then I’m hungry
And then I eat too much
And then I feel like ****
And then I have to walk
And then I run out of time
And then
And then
And then
And then
And if I could go back
And do it again
I’d probably eat all those fries

I’d like to tell future me that their success was a long time coming.

I’d like to tell past me to chill the **** out for a moment.

I’d like to tell now me that this wasn’t my fault.
Even if I don’t know if I believe that.

"When did you get so thin?" they say it like it's a revelation like the gods from heaven had sent down a message to convey to the whole world and that message was conveyed in a girl and the numbers on her bathroom scale.

Smiling thinly I have to replay "good diet, good exercise" even tough deep down I know the reality and they know it too but I lie because how can you explain that the thing that gives you life is the thing that's killing you?

The good diet? Apparently might as not, apparently celery and gum is not a healthy way to make your body function, apparently no meals is not, apparently diet coke is not, apparently ice is not a way to live your life, but who wants to live mine anyway?

It's hard to convey that every bite adds on a stone and every meal is equal to 10 kilos I have to run off, till I trow up, till my **** is toned up, till my senses turn off and my heart gives up, because when I look in the mirror the girl I see is not the girl in me, the girl I see isn't a girl at all, she has no  bones and no muscles, rather she has jelly around every bend of the body, every inch of it is filled with the word that becomes her, a word that she becomes.
Fat.  
She's fat, she's ugly she's fat, she's fat, she's ugly, she is fat, she's just not that fat, she's fat, her stomach pukes when she eats, fat, her thighs jiggle when she walks, fat, her arms and legs can barely function, fat, she's always dizzy and cold, fat, her face is pale and she is that word. Fat.

Although people try, although they try to tell her that she's not, to help her, to save her, to rescue a girl that does not need rescuing, this girl does not need saving rather this girl needs a knife, a knife to cut away all her worries, to tear her lungs and bumps on her body until she has nothing left, nothing at all because nothing is perfect,
zero is perfection, zero meals, zero carbs, zero calories, zero kilos, zero efforts, zero voices, zero people in her head screaming, zero messages in her head gleaming whenever she eats, the evil ones that she deals with, the ones who stop her eating, the ones that know that every mouthful she eats she is no longer beautiful, she becomes that word, fat,
what torture could be worse than that?

Selfish, she's selfish, I'm selfish for believing that a few spare pounds is the worst thing that can happen to me.

People are reminding me constantly that how the nightmares I feed are not the ones to fear because I could get hit by a car, I could get harassed or stabbed, I could get a disease that can stop me from breathing, I could get kicked on to the streets an of course, of course these things are worse and terrible and horrible and bleak but at least in these circumstances I wouldn't have to eat.

The truth is I'm a jealous little girl in a world that doesn't care, I'm jealous of the people I see who weight less than I will be, I'm jealous of the people who don't eat that people don't see, I'm jealous of the scale, I'm jealous of nothing, I'm jealous of bones and vomits and pills of prescription and water and air and nothing.

So, "when did you get so thin?" they say it like it's a revelation because how can they begin to see that the thing that gives me life is the thing that's killing me.

Mister Nut Bag circled the shop
spouting off mindless diatribe,
like he was a ******* gear-Einstein,
but he didn’t know ****.

Everything he said was
total & utter malarkey,
that means some serious *******.
He looked like he hadn’t climbed since birth,
like when he climbed down from his mother’s womb
& been eatin’ carbs ever since.
A complete carb ****** he was,
certainly not a ******* hiker.

I wish I could’ve been
not politically correct,
tactless & unsavory.
I would’ve said to
Mister Know-It-All,
you fat ****,
**** a bag of *****.

I guess everybody's got their place,
arrogance has none
in our place.