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Ember Evanescent Dec 2014
Psychological issues?

Sure.

I've got plenty.

I don't know exactly when it started
But some time ages ago
During elementary school
I just felt so worthless
Like I was numb
I wanted to feel
But I didn't know how
And it wasn't a sharp pain
I would welcome a sharp pain
It was dull ache that wouldn't leave me
I froze in my own icy thoughts
Maybe it was the loneliness
Or all the things those girls said to me
Maybe it was the insults or the whispers
Or maybe it was just my twisted mind
But whatever the cause
I tried to **** myself
When I was just a little 11 year old girl
When some girls were still playing with Barbies in secret
I was secretly playing with knives and ropes
I would take that blade
And scratch a cut into my wooden headboard
One slit in the wood for every moment that I wanted to die
Because I was too young back then to even think of my wrist
That came later
A few years later
And still
There are days where I just feel so horrible and sad and broken
For absolutely zero reason
It doesn't make sense
Nothing bad is even happening
But I feel shattered
I spent a year feeling so. hollow.
So f!cking hollow
I felt like I couldn't breathe
Like I wasn't alive
I spent entire days
Not speaking
I still miss the cuts sometimes, honestly
I like my scars
Which sounds terrible
But I trace them with my fingernails absentmindedly some days
During the darker nights
It comforts me
Because even though I’m not going to cut myself ever again
I can jolt myself into remembering the pain
And it is a form of relief in itself
I don’t know
Not something I can explain
Is that depression?
Probably not though, I feel bad suggesting it in front of people who actually for sure have depression when I haven't been analyzed
But still, it's not impossible I guess

I spent 5 years
From grade 5 through to grade 9
Which is pretty **** young
Feeling fat
Hating my body
Hating myself
I can see my ribs but I still feel fat
It’s okay I can fix that
Eating a little less
Skip a meal
Just skip lunch
Just eat a tiny breakfast, no lunch
No breakfast, no lunch but it’s okay because I have a good dinner
I think I’m losing weight
Is it bad that I’m in grade 5 and thinking like this?
This is great
I think it’s working
I’m in grade 6 now
Maybe I won’t be worthless if I become skinny
I can still see my ribs
I could from the beginning
But I still feel fat
Okay, less dinner now
Hide it well
Let’s switch
No lunch, a little dinner and a bit of breakfast
Just enough to stay alive
Although how much to I really want to stay alive?
Fat.
Look at my legs
Look at their legs
My thighs God I hate my thighs
Eat less
Eat less and less
Until I’m basically surviving on snacks and just the beginnings of each meal
Just enough to take a few bites before they leave the room for a minute
Just long enough for me to throw away my food
But I don’t think I’m losing weight
I will never be enough
7th grade
Just a little less
Don’t tell any of them
Losing pounds
Check my reflection
I still feel fat
I try to be less so I can feel like I’m more
But does the number on the scale even matter anymore?
I’m promising and promising I ate before I came
But these pretty little lies are driving even me insane
And they can’t see through my smile they can’t figure it out
I’m slowly killing myself
From the inside out
Pretty soon, “I don’t feel well” is my favorite phrase and an everyday thing
A justification for my small portions that I don’t finish
It’s true though
I don’t feel well
I feel worthless.
It continues into 8th and 9th grade
Worse and worse
Looking up the calories of different food
Surviving on water and tea
Just enough food to stay alive
Though I really don’t care that much about my own survival, really
Is that anorexia nervosa?
I doubt it
But it’s a possibility I guess

I look in the mirror
And I feel so f!cking ugly
I literally cannot find ONE thing I like about myself
I cannot leave the house without makeup
Because I am SO ashamed of my own face
I genuinely feel bad for the people who have to see my face
I cry sometimes, because I look in the mirror and see my own worthless hideousness
I remember that sleepover I was invited to with the popular girls and I wondered why
When I got locked in a closet, got soap sprayed in my mouth and locked outside in the freezing cold snow without pants on when I was just trying to change into my night clothes
That’s when I knew I had been invited just so they could torment me
I don’t like being the entertainment for the party
I tried to just go to sleep because if I called home I would look like a coward
And my mother who NEVER let me go to sleepovers would get to say “I told you so”
And when they thought I was asleep
But I wasn’t
I listened to them talk for a full hour
My eyes on the clock
My ears on their conversation
“Is she asleep”?
I didn’t know they were talking about me until I heard them mention my name
When they talked for a full f!cking hour
In detail
About why I was ugly
On what levels I was ugly
The degree of my ugliness
I didn’t cry
I didn’t sit up and tell them I could hear them
It would be too humiliating
I listened
And I know they are right
But now it’s getting bad
My face doesn’t even look human to me anymore
It looks like some sort of beastly troll’s face
It looks f!cking hideous
My mother is worried about me
Because I can’t even look myself in the mirror when I have no makeup on
Because I Freak. Out when it is suggested that I might have to be in public without hiding my ugly face in makeup
It literally affects my ability to function properly in everyday life.
The thing is, those girls said it
And they ALL agreed
So if I REALLY had dysmorphia
Then it would all be in my mind
And if they all agreed I was hideous
Then I must be
So how can it be imagined?
I don’t know
Anyway
My point is
I suppose
MAYBE
It is possible
I have dysmorphia

But
Depression
Anorexia Nervosa
Dysmorphia

Those possible diseases of the mind
I
Have multiple
Psychological issues

BUT OCD IS NOT F!CKING ONE OF THEM

How dare he suggest such a thing
Just because I
“Always seem to be working towards something”
Excuse me for not getting drunk and high and naked
Putting off work
Not caring about anything
It’s not OCD though
It’s just called going somewhere in life
Because I may as well
Since in my mind
I’m hopelessly lost
Sorry this is so long. Don't feel any obligation to actually read the whole thing it's more for me to get out some bad emotions.
Ray May 2014
With a face and voice like that you’d never guess
the girl was five foot ten
she walks in and towers above the image
you expected
a girl pushing five feet, dainty, even whimsical
but surely petite
she’s far from petite

This girl sympathizes with transgender bodies
yet envies those who succeed
Hormones and knives can fix gods mistake
but nothing can fix me
so women will sit dreaming of dropping pounds
and she dreams of dropping feet
never complete

Psychs and shrinks digress this to be nothing more
than another disorder
Her views on herself are simply brushed off
as body dysmorphia
yet therapy nor pills shall shake her desire
to fix gods mistake
by freeing her soul of this giant hell hole
leaving it for someone else to take.
KM Ramsey Jun 2015
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated

i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers

barriers create madness

walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back

i can’t breathe

there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration

i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
on how it feels to be in your body when you are having a body dysmorphia episode
Rebecca Lawson Jan 2015
my body, the hand grenade
ugly crawls inside, makes a nest.
an animal chained in a cage,
my insect in a jar.

i spit out my ugly. it wasn't supposed to be this way.

life is a simple arrangement
of numbers and measures.
the bathroom mirror under florescent lights
is my sacred altar.
never mind that nothing else is sacred.

my broken body, the hungry child
i give her food, i take it away. i make her cry.
i bleed for her.

she swallows my ache and comes back for more.
Laura Ingram Mar 2012
Paper cranes, only able to fly when thrown.
My body bulging yet angular, a broken bone.
The china doll your mother always told your not to touch.
No matter what I do, it’s never good enough.
The slipper belongs to the girl like glass.
I hope my breaking upon impact has left one that lasts.
Drowning in the I-tried-to-make-you-see
Can’t swim without water, but you can go too deep.
I wish I could stuff you into my shoes.
Make you trip over you-can-knots-too.
I’m-a-whale-bone-corset laced too tight to breathe.
The silent sob song I hear every time I try to eat.
After I learned to play the scales, I wrote.
Comprised largely of passed notes.
Red-solo skin sloshes his I-don’t-drink.
My-stay-in-bed is the only place I can think.
Shape shifting twig-logs legs
I remember all the things you said.
Skeleton, Toothpick, Helium, Thread.
I am much more breakable
Than the mirror that is on my wall.
Beeswax body melts over my candle-wick spine.
Please read between the I’m-fine lines.
I’m-stuck fingers down my throat.
I won’t breathe easy until I choke.
Hungry enough to swallow me whole.
Nothing I crave so much as control.
My hummingbird pulse swings on the raised bars of my bone-cage.
Those none of the bird sort can break.
Isn’t fifty-eight a failing grade?
Words ridged in all the right places to form a fist.
It’s only so long that I can resist.
Lie-colored tendons strain against the bathroom door.
The heaviest part of an apple is the core.
Called enough names to forget my own.
I don’t mine being, but feeling alone.
brooke Apr 2013
I
spend too long
pulling at my skin
in the mirror silently
abhorring my body with-
out which I couldn't exist, and I
wish I could see the beauty in the
way my joints fold and unfold but
all I see is the line across my stomach
and a decade of hiding at the swimming
pool.
(c) Brooke Otto
A Mar 2014
My hipbones rock me on the wooden floor 
Protruding from my frame 
Skin bruises from simply laying on my stomach
Yet I am not skinny
 red lines mark where the folds of my stomach have been, 
my arm like wings 
my thighs hugging each other tightly
 stretching occasionally my eye catches the reflection of a stick like woman I can't recognize in the dark window until I realize she is me 
as that settles in my true details fill in 
morphing the strange woman into the ugly that is me. 
Striving to become the strange woman that once was 
I shove a finger down my throat
quiet in body
never felt
connection in reflection
never seen
harmony in surface and mind
never realized.

what is real? I cannot see, neither feel.
what I see, likewise feel —is not real?

back against the wall, cracked.

a chorus of blood
chants incessantly under skin
in the tunnels of my wrists
a buzzing
I am encased in this unsound flesh of sin, crawling
fingers of insanity
all I can do is destroy (myself)
the ritualistic obsession
the control seduction
compulsively constructing my own deconstruction
a dance —just enough to relive pain in living
sweating and dizzy in exhaustible effort I am, lost
in the hunt
to conquer my body like a continent
assimilation with a world where  
all flesh is but wax and tactless camouflage  
painted cheeks fall like petals  
hair like wheat severs from heads
and bones rust like guns that drain away blood—
no-win.

my brain collapses inwards.

I strive towards completion but in reaching it find
I am already dead.
Arlo Disarray Jul 2017
Ever since the warm weather began,
I started getting really bad anxiety about my body
The fear of wearing a bathing suit has always been very real, for me
Even when I barely weighed 100 pounds,
I thought I was fat
I thought my body was disgusting
So now that I've gained a little weight,
I was terrified to put my bathing suit on
But you know what?
I did
And I don't look that bad
Yes, I need to get back in better shape for my health
and for my own sake
But I don't look like the gelatinous blob
I thought I would
As a woman, I've been conditioned to believe since childhood,
that if I don't have a tiny, flat stomach,
I'm not beautiful
That I have to be a size 2,
or guys won't be attracted to me
That if I don't keep my body in perfect shape all the time,
I'm lazy and unhealthy
I'm trying to learn how to love my body
no matter what it looks like
Because looks fade,
and I won't be 26 forever
But I'll always be me,
and I'll always be worth loving
I've always thought the most beautiful women were the ones who could love themselves no matter what. That's what I'm trying to work on. Physical appearances change. We get older. Fatter, thinner, uglier, prettier. It doesn't matter. What matters is what's within, and that's the most important beauty to work on. Instead of spending endless effort at the gym, maybe some of these ladies should go to the gym in their hearts. Haha
kiki thomas Mar 2015
Search inside yourself for love,
It has to start somewhere,
You have to love yourself before,
Others even start to care.

I learned the hard way,
I suffered alone,
Body Dysmorphia,
As it is better known.

I went insane first of course,
I couldn't look at myself,
I hated everything i was,
At risk of being left on the shelf.

People would say,
Surely it's not that bad,
But what do they know,
I was way past sad.

I decided to take it,
One step at a time,
I decided to change,
I started the climb.

Out of the dark,
No longer alone,
Working through my fears,
With my husband at home.
Eleanor Jan 2019
This is someone I've loved
I've loved her for years.
She's hated the world for longer
How much each day did she think she'd die? Never make it to 18.
Suicide was easier, she couldn't tell her family who or what she was
I was terrified, and I didn't even know.
Tell me, please, why are creatures that are so beautiful allowed to die? or why are they taken away, not only from us, the people around them, but from themselves, why can you see the potential in other people more often than yourself? Why do so many people have depression, why do all of my friends "joke" about dying but cry alone at night about how much they hate themselves? What an absolute pandemic. The nights and days and life is for lovers, the fresh smell of flowers on your nightstand on a high school saturday from your beautiful lover, who wanted to **** herself yesterday morning? But instead of hitting a cement wall in her car, speeding down the street, or slicing at her wrists, no instead, she tells you that you're what kept her on the road, you are who she called right after being in a car accident two years ago on a snowy night, you're who she wants to spend her free time with, actually no, you're not, I am. That girl ******* loves me, and I ******* love her and though the idea of actually marrying her seems naive, and childish, knowing that adults must scoff and roll their eyes at an idea of perfect 17 year old love, but I've lived figurative decades with her. SO MUCH PAIN AND LOVE, ENOUGH FOR 30 LIVES. I've known her for 15 years now, she lives 5 houses down the street, an upsetting family home, with problems of their own, (but who doesn't have issues?) I know what she deserves she deserves love, and so so so much comfort and kindness. I swear if you saw her like I do, I think you'd be surprised. Have you seen her? God. That long brown hair, that's curly without her even trying, in messy beach waves, or her with a beanie on? Or a snapback? Her black torn jeans, her vans shoes, her ridiculous socks I pretend to refuse to kiss her in, her huge blue, yellow, and green eyes. With those long, pretty, eyelashes, and her soft, small, kissable lips, they pout and smile and every movement her mouth makes, I want to see. She's walking art, she's hard, she's a badass, she is everything you'd want in an angsty, temperamental, crabby, high school girlfriend, you might not like the drugs, the Xanax, the Adderall, the excess of ****, nicotine. She stays away from alcohol, her parents and she knows why. You've never seen her hands, felt her warm, small frame, and her precious arms. I could stay in them as long as the sun burns. She kills me, she kills me all the time. When she's sad, I want to fix it, when she's happy I want to join that, when she's hyper and annoying I still love her everything, when she's depressed, the only thing on my mind is her getting better. My therapist said we are co-dependent, but that lately I'm moving more away from that, realizing boundaries, and property lines. I might sound crazy, believe me, I know I likely do, but what if you knew that she loved me as much right back? I am tall, about 7 inches taller than her, 5'9 . I have light blonde hair I'm growing out of a short bob haircut. I am limber, but with curves, I have a thin but hourglass shape, I have anorexia nerviosa, I have anxiety, like her, depression like her, she has bipolar tendencies, I am dissociative, we both have body dysmorphia, so honestly, at this point, who the **** knows what I look like? No one is honest about how ugly I am, not a fun thought, sorry, moving on. I love her, I do, I will, I have, I don't know where I'd find anyone more fit for me in the entire world, and that's why I need her, and that's why she needs me, and that's why both of us are alive. We are both alive because the other is alive, I think back about the pills she took 2 years ago. The cry for help, rehab, the hospital, her body, I can't imagine my angel going through that, and me not being there for her, again. She's everything to me. I want to be there, I will be there, she is absolutely beautiful and I will never, ever, ever be the one to let her down. Anytime she calls me out of school and into the parking lot, and I run around campus trying to find her and get help, and each time I go to her house at 3am with my mom because she cut her wrists again, my pain worsens with hers. She doesn't deserve this *******!!!! SHE DOESN'T WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THIS WORLD? I DON'T DESERVE THIS EITHER. WE ARE GOOD PEOPLE. WE ARE LESBIANS, WHAT THE **** JUST LET US LIVE, WE WANT TO **** OURSELVES ENOUGH EVERYDAY. I DON'T EAT, SHE DOESN'T TAKE CARE OF HERSELF. WE USE DRUGS TO HELP, BECAUSE NOTHING ELSE WORKS ENOUGH TO NUMB ANY OF THIS PAIN, EXCEPT LOVE. THAT'S WHAT WE HAVE. WELCOME AMERICA. DRUGS, ***, LOVE AND GIRLS. That's what we are alive for, and never for a second will you catch me alive while she's dead, and vise versa. I'm out when she is. I'm in love with her, and this world will mean nothing if she goes. Her dad yelling her name and running up the stairs to see the ****** wrists of his daughter, me crying on my kitchen floor, over food, over my body, over my girlfriend and best friend wanting to be dead. I've cried in my room, I've cried in the music room, the bathroom, my closet, I've cried for her. Any pain I've ever felt, I never want her to ******* face, and slays me, absolutely destroys me to know she feels the same pain. Someone get her some help, some love, something more, her friends say that she's so so lucky to have me, and I guess that makes me feel so good to hear. I am equally so so lucky to have her. I love that she loves me, I love the ring she gave me, that was the ring she'd wear every day she didn't self harm. I think she got it from an old crush, but I don't mind, it's all part of the story. She got me a diamond ring, and I made her a diamond ring. I also gave her a ring in a little Patina box that has a heart on the front and an engraved saying, "forever and always" on the inside. She said she CRASHED into love with me when I gave her that in my 94' Beretta. Oct. 25, 2018. We made it official. Can't wait for the day I get to call her mine forever. The day we have our first child, looking at her and thinking of how far we've come, how much love we've created in this world, and how much joy and comfort we've added, how much peace we've found, and what future we've made. I can't say enough about her, no one could. No one can explain her, or anyone, the intricacies of people are sometimes unimaginable when one is not in love with someone, but I love her teeth, her thighs, her hands and arms and stomach and chest. I love her heartbeat and her voice. I love when she's even a little annoyed with me, and I kiss her, and we instantly forget about whatever it was we were fighting about. She's my dream, and my future, and my life's greatest love.
I love her, I love buying groceries with her, I love her intelligence and humor, and entire body, and laugh and, god, everything about this girl.
Brent Kincaid Jun 2017
Mirrors are all traitors
As in them I can see
Just what a monster I am;
That I will always be.
I have lumps and and spots
That make me unloveable.
And everything I eat is
Another bite of trouble.

Why can’t I ever look
Like the models in the book?
Why is it that I
Can’t look myself in the eye?
No one will look longingly
At the gorgon I turned out to be.

I don’t watch cartoons
Because what I see is me
What did I do to deserve
To become so **** ugly?
Did I cross the path of a cat
That was an omen meant to warn
And I ignored it so now
I inherited this awful form?

Why can’t I be the kind
With a beautifully formed behind?
I wish it was my history
To stimulate evil jealousy.

I want to look like a dream,
But instead I must surrender
A fragile wish, as it seems
An unfilled hope altogether.
Some friends are sweet to me
They say I look fine to them,
But I know what I can see
And I deserve no diadem.
Tyler Smiley Sep 2018
I haven’t weighed myself in weeks. I have this incessant itch inside of me longing to know what numbers I ring up to be. But everyday I hear another gnawing voice say,
“You are not a number, you are a person. A number does not define you. What defines you is your kindness, your efforts, the way you live your life.”

But what happens when the way I’ve been living my life for the past year and a half has been nothing BUT numbers and scales and nutrition labels and dysmorphia. What happens when my efforts have only been reduced to reducing myself? What happens when kindness overflows towards others, but I cannot even look in the mirror and say “I love you.” What happens when you are completely consumed by something that refuses to let you consume?
-Does the tunnel end soon?
Breeze-Mist Jun 2016
I want to breathe in so deeply
My lungs inflate
Break their cage
And let my heart
Along with my feelings, thoughts, fear, and numbness
Fly out
So I hold my breath
And I almost get there
Rose L May 2014
Break down the mirror, and break me down
brains in my hair and teeth at my wrists,
she said fourteen caps of alprazolam gave her all she needed
she needs a new world, a new earth, a new ruler, that's what she needed-
I told you it wasn't meant to be this way, i was meant to be the prettiest
but girls with thickened veins and thickened wrists are destined for the bridge edge
My silver smiler body double told me to cut out the poison in my veins
and guess what I did it I did it I did it again
tell them your name, dysmorphia, tell them all what you think of me -
start the car and run me over, honey.
My poetry style is 1) ***** on a word document 2) Upload. Not good. I have yet again failed in not mentioning wrists in a poem...****.
Ally Gottesman Nov 2018
It’s mysterious the way the mind works
How your self worth can just
Wither away
And how your will just falters

How looking in the mirror
Can become a thing of fear
And you pick out each
Little flaw, each imperfection
When you can’t see your ribs
- You can never see your ribs -

How helping yourself
Turns into guilt
And how everyone stares
And picks you apart
And judges

But that is not you
It is your mind
Pulling away at you
Blurring the truth
As it rots
Shona Sep 2018
Breathing in your smoke is like heaven to me,
Clearing out my lungs of such anxiety.
Your crutch and your dependence,
An endearing call of resplendence,
I think I loved you.

You make me nervous.
To the point where my brain stops,
And my mouth keeps running
Without any indication of where
the finish line is.
Where I begin to speak too fast and too quick
To know what I’ve said, and quite possibly
For you to even follow each word that
Pours out.

Yet Your heart was longing for another,
You and I were not meant to be lovers,
And We were not made for each other.
Oh, how sad times swept away the positive possibilities and the “what if?” worries,
I thought I could only hate the month of August,
It seems I now despise of July.

Stress melted away within my tears as I wept,
Sadness left the residue of itself on my pillow where I slept.
The sun bleeding through my curtains closed,
And yet my room turns an ill ridden shade of yellow.

I thought the outcome would leave me with a feeling of euphoria
Instead I look to my mirrored self, reflecting a state of body dysmorphia

I do not like the way that I look,
Comparing myself to her and your feelings I mistook.
Straighter teeth and an older complexion,
While I hide away, she only craves the attention.
You only knew her for a day and you still went away,
With her on holiday to a place so far, I can’t stay
In this state of mind any longer.

Seeing her be the lighter to your cigarette;
The founding letters to the jumbled spaces in your alphabet.
I see I am only the ash that falls to the ground,
I am not within those letters which you finally found.
A journey/The stages of me liking someone who seemingly came to not feel the same.
Olivia Greene Sep 2013
A person like you should never have to go through what you have
No one deserves it, but especially someone like you.

I talked to you for 15 minutes and by the 8th minute I had tears rolling down my cheeks and my heart pulsated so sharply I thought I could see it through my shirt

God, why.
Mom. Cancer. Rehab. Chain. *******. Smoker.
Depression. Anxiety. Body dysmorphia. God, I am so sorry.  

All the cliches in the entire world could not amount to the things I wish I could say to you, and one day make you believe.
All the times you saved me from my worst self, only to realize that while you had saved me, it was your own self that was delving deeper and deeper into its own defeat.
God.
Every time you would come up and give me a hug even when I barely knew you.
When I had no idea what you would mean to me, and how much your life would impact mine.
I am so sorry.
Sorry that your parent's were **** to you. That you didn't get the family you deserve, but made yourself such a strong, completely marvelous person.
I'm not romanticising any of the things you went through because I would never shed a good light on things that caused you so much suffering.
No, that's not it at all.
All the stories you told me tonight seemed too unbearable to be real.
But those stories are your harsh realities and I would trade everything I owned, all the money in my bank account, for you to stop what you do to yourself and the undo the numbness you've trained yourself to feel
you are NOT sad personified
you are NOT just *** appeal and sweet heartbreaker
you even know that my heart breaks, literally I can feel it, when you tell me, show me, paint ******* pictures for me of all the things you've dragged yourself through
I can't pick your feet up and carry you through, though.
God, how I wish I could.
You have to do it on your own, I know you can.
But I just ******* hope you'll follow through in your terrifying, mystifyingly horrible promise of, "Maybe I'll stick around until then"
.
.
.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
You know why I'm obsessed with makeup?
You know why I literally BREAK. DOWN. when I see myself in the mirror on one of those REALLY ugly days that I have?
You know why I seem f!cking vain and beauty obsessed and attention seeking because of how self-deprecating I am?
You know why I am currently crying...alone...on my bedroom floor...kind of pathetically?

Because now I'm a little bit scared
That maybe I DO have a disease of the mind
Maybe I DO have something in my head that isn't right
It just seems so impossible
Because I mean
I look in the mirror
And all I see is this hideous shameful beastly girl
So ugly
In fact, I genuinely feel terrible for the people who have to look at me
and I don't know why
I just don't see how anybody could ever possibly think that I am pretty
And for some reasons I'm crying right now
And I feel really alone
But no no no
There is no way I really have dysmorphia
Is there?

I feel embarrassed
Like I come across shallow
And stupid
And makeup obsessed
Because I can't ever see myself as pretty
NOT EVEN ONCE
not even decent
Not even reasonable
I just. see. UGLY.
and ashamed of my face,
And ashamed of my obsession
With cosmetics
Because it is like the only medicine they made
To fix this affliction
Makeup can make up for how ugly I am
maybe it can fix me
maybe I won't hate myself anymore
but it never does
and I hate crying alone!
I am currently crying. Alone...
yes, I know. Attention seeking *****. I just needed to express it somewhere and I figured HP wasn't a bad choice. I don't want to call someone because then I feel like an overdramatic burden.
F!ck everything.
Especially me.
calion Mar 2014
he claims to just be blatantly honest.
but he calls me lovely.
and compliments me.
and listens wholly.
and has extreme dysmorphia towards my weight.
and reads my poetry.
and compliments it.
and treats me as if I possess some sort of innate value.
and makes me feel secure.
---
was he lying about being honest?
or am I lying to myself about my value?
someone is lying, I'm just not sure who.
Josh May 2019
I'd shatter the mirror,
if I knew it would release your gaze.
The lock keeps your brain racing relentless
as your eyes hold the whip
and mascara, like an addict
Fortifying the belief that the real you
Isn't beautiful enough
EmotionalPoet Feb 2019
Yesterday I felt good about myself
I thought I looked good in that dress
Today I saw a video of me
And my self esteem went down, I'm down on my knee
I'm working so hard to maintain,
A good physic my self to entertain
My self to be proud of
My self to not be worn off
I count calories every day
A limit I set to always obey
A workout regim to never look pass
Only walking, not taking the bus
I find my legs so thick why?
I find my arms so flabby, No I deny
I'm gonna try to push some more forward
To not give up on this trip, only onward
To me and everyone who struggles.
Ember Evanescent Dec 2014
You will never ever find out
I wore long sleeves
For a while
For a reason
A very twisted
And ****** reason

You will never find out
That I starved myself
For 5 years
Because I
Was never enough
For myself

You will never find out
I tried to **** myself
At the age of 11

Because
Girls
Can be mean and
Bullying
Eventually
Gets the better of you
And when they hate you
Pretty soon
You hate yourself too


You will never find out
I wore black
For a long time
To reflect my inner depression
But I was depressed
Long before that
For years


You will never find out
I may or may not
Have dysmorphia
I really don't think so
But my mother gets more
And more worried
Everyday
When I mutter to myself
Just out of habit
How hideous and worthless I am
When I turn out the lights
In the bathroom
When I am not wearing make up
So I do not burst into tears
Because of the shame I feel
Of my ugly, ugly face
But it's real
The mirror shows me the truth
A disease of the mind
Is not distorting
My vision
Of myself

You will never find out
How broken I was
For a very long time

And I am glad
Because you couldn't have handled it anyway.
He believed me when I said I was fine. *******.
Things I am so glad I never told the **** I liked so much for a while.
Tamera Pierce Dec 2018
When I look in the mirror in the morning,
I feel fine.
I brush my hair.
I am fine.
I brush my teeth,
And I am fine.

Then I notice how my teeth aren’t as white as they could be.
But I'm still fine.

Then I put on my clothes and I notice how I spill over the sides.
But I am fine.
Then I notice how my hips jut out
And my jeans are never long enough in the ankles.

Then I spend ten minutes thinking of changing my jeans,
Because this shirt is too tight
But I opt for a hoodie instead.
Then I am lost in the hoodie.
I feel like a blob of fabric.
And then just a blob.

I get in my car and look in the mirror to adjust
And notice how dark under my eyes are.
When I’m pretty sure they weren’t that dark earlier.

As I drive to school, I notice my hands on the steering wheel
And ponder how they can be both fat and scraggly at the same time.

I get to school and notice people staring at me at the red lights
While I begin to cross the road.

I pass windows and with each one,
I notice my thighs grow larger with each step.
I notice how wide I am when I pass other girls
Then I think about my ankles and I swear I can feel them swell.

By the time it is twelve o’clock,
I have convinced myself that I am a
Bulging,
Suffocating,
Beast
Who tramples everyone in the room.
And the Earth is suddenly too small for someone as big as I am.
Xander King Dec 2014
When I was a little girl I loved going to the fair.
seeing the clowns
rides
and carnies.
but my favorite thing to see at the fair is the fun house
Remember those?
Where mirrors flooded the walls bending towards you
distorting the image you saw to one of absurd portions
Nose swelling larger
legs shrinking
hips inflating.
I loved seeing the shapes my body could take.
...I haven't been to a fun house in years.
And even if I went I know the mirrors would look like those that hang in my room.
Body dysmorphia is it's own fun house
one full of insecurities and self-hate.
It makes regular mirrors bend my perception of reality.
Makes my stomach bloat
thighs inflate
cheeks widen
eyes shrink
My mind has turned into a trapeze act
And I don't know if i want it to stop.
Ember Evanescent Dec 2014
I am currently in one of those moods where everyone who is happy and in love, or has any kind of adorable love-life I really would like to light on fire.

Dear beautiful couples, please get your sickeningly cute relationship out of my sight before I *****! Can't you see I'm busy being bitter and lonely and spiteful?!
Sincerely,
The girl in the corner with the chocolate and the ice cream crying bitterly and insanely yelling crazy (slightly terrifying) things at random happy couples passing by.

I am so jealous of some girls it is actually pathetic and I know that jealousy makes me a pretty bad and petty person, but I think it would actually make me a worse person if I weren't honest and denied being jealous of them. I think that jealousy is just a different kind of pain that you are not allowed to feel because society stifles it, and that is not fair. Anyone else agree with this? Idk, maybe I'm the only one. I just think that as long as you are not "getting revenge" or "acting on your jealousy" or whatever it is perfectly normal to feel jealous and it should not be seen as agony, not a negative feeling that makes you a bad person if you feel it.

There is this guy and even though I don't really like him anymore, he and I are still chatting a little and I see his ****** exgirlfriend every fcking day and I hate her. Anyway, I just feel like I can never be like her and I feel this sense of competition between us everytime I see her because the guy I was talking about dropped me for her when he thought he had a chance to get back together with her and I hate being the "Plan B" and I hate him and I hate her and I hate feeling this much hatred and I hate myself for not being as badass as her, as pretty as her, as cool as her, having an original taste in music that is more similar to his as her, I hate myself for caring this much, I hate myself for being so much less interesting than her, and I just really feel worthless and like I am nothing compared to her. Also she is popular. I apologize if this offends anyone but since I had bad experiences with the popular crowd a while back (a lot of stuff I guess some people might call bullying but I don't want to sound like I'm victimizing myself), I just loathe the entire "culture" and society of "popular" people everywhere. I recognize that is an extremely biased, discriminatory, offensive, narrow-minded and pathetic, generalizing point of view, I just have really scarring experiences with them and I don't even care anymore. Anyway, she is extremely well liked by everyone and she is dismissive of poetry and the art of writing which offends me and she is just really... physically beautiful. Do you have any idea what I would give to be pretty like that? I can't compete. I may as well give up. Sorry for the rant this was a lot longer than I actually realized while writing it, I just needed to get this out I'm sorry.

It is kind of getting worse and I am starting to wonder if maybe I should get tested for dysmorphia. Just to ease my mind about the matter... but I'm scared to find out. If it is a no, then I'm glad I don't have a mental disorder but that means I really am a hideous beast and I really need to get some kind of operation or something to fix my ugly face, then if it is a yes, I have a mental disorder and I really don't want to deal with a disease of the mind because it hurts a lot to hate yourself this much.

I have too much work to do and too little time I'm panicking there is no way I am going to be done.

I have no social life.

I want chocolate.

I need to stop trying to resolve things with chocolate.

I'm in one of those moods where I am sad. I don't know why, I just am. How is that even possible?

I am not good at dealing with loneliness.

There must be a way to feel like you are enough for yourself. I haven't found it yet.
Not to offend anyone with the whole happy-relationship-burning-couples-threats I was kidding I am happy for you, I am also just insanely jealous, that's all. Don't take it personally. :) <3
bridgett Aug 2019
I want to know what people see,
I'll never see myself clearly.
My brain changes and contorts my body,
I'll
**** in my stomach till I can't breathe,
Nothing but high waisted skinny jeans,
No tight shirts, dresses, or bikinis.

I'm
too wide in the waist
too broad in the shoulders
too chubby in the fingers
too full in the cheeks

And
I'll never see what people see
I'll never see what makes me, me.
livianna Jul 2019
My physical form dulls my light
and at this point, mostly at night
existing isn't normal.
claire Aug 2015
Listen:

You cannot give back what you stole from yourself. You can’t feed your body the things you denied it while it was quivering beneath the whip of your merciless, perfectionist dysmorphia, or erase the scars you’ve carved into it, or stroke it tenderly all those times you wished you could jump out of your flesh and become somebody else—a goddess-girl, a radiant impossibility, angelic fire with taut skin over crystal cheekbones and a torso so trim it could snap in a storm.

But you can start again. You can make vows to yourself that you will spend the rest of your life fulfilling, because to hell with comparison. To hell with the wars waged on magazine racks. To hell with GET SKINNY IN 3 WEEKS and HOW TO TIGHTEN YOUR ABS and 10 TIPS THAT WILL MAKE HIM WANT YOU. To hell with the mythology of thin—this vile word, this grotesque title, this dismissal of your vibrant heart and humming brain, this slaughtering of your entirety. To hell with the numbers that made you ill. To hell with calories/ scales/ grams/ portions, the formulas that stabbed you and wrecked you and violated you in ways so wicked you still cannot breathe them aloud. To hell with it all.

All this time you have been confused by yourself, thinking it ugly, despicable, criminal. All your life you have suppressed the sunburst inside you. Now, it’s time to release the latch. Time to push the lid open. Time to make whatever noise you were never bold enough to make, because none of it matters, you know? Size and measurement and all that soul-splitting *******. You are not bone or blood or cell; you are dizzy blue light and skipped heartbeats, the intersection of potassium and sodium, that chemical eruption of color, that running down unnamed streets amid stars and heavy breathing, that feeling of pushing through bodies of strangers to where there is the sweet negative space in the eye of it all, waiting for you to pull your hair off your face and dance like you are waterfall upon waterfall come to life.

You are not an equation. You are not pounds and inches. You are breath and sight and noise and movement and growth, and you cannot squander another pounding of your sweet, open-palm heart loathing your body for the misdeed of not being something else. The extra flesh protecting your vital organs is irrelevant when all the world is an electrical impulse roaring its beauty for you. The precise width of your hips is immaterial here in this place where sleepless people are kissing and comets are screaming through the atmosphere like fallen gods and tomorrow is unfurling in great, glittering swaths of potential.
Mims Jan 2020
I don’t know if I’m really losing weight
Or if my self image has just become
Even more distorted
Collarbones
Ribs
More pronounced
Stick out  
Thighs
Arms
Shrink
But is it all in my head?
Do I just perceive myself as smaller?
trying so hard
Not to take up space
I could live under my bedroom floorboards
And still have room
For you?
My eating has felt normal but how could I remember
I don’t sleep
Did I even eat more than 1 meal today?
Yes.
Or was that yesterday?
Teetering on something significant,
but the words haven't been molded;
just some idea that was formed
in the attic of an old comic book store
when I was inspired by the artwork
of that Liefeld guy who inks dysmorphia.
-
The definition of ******* seems to be something
that fits like a drunken tattoo in a hard to see area.
You need a couple mirrors, your arms start to ache
and you never really do get a good look at it.
Now you have to explain to casual intimate partners
that you think it's the first Megazord, not a little devil.
-
I recently did a math problem that took up an entire page;
it was my first time doing something like that.
The pacing of math classes gives me an anxiety like I can't believe.
The word prerequisite give me an anxiety like I can't believe.
Sweaty, cold, fetal, this can't really be a normal reaction, right?
I think Montessori might have messed with my wiring.
-
I can hear my mom shuffling about on her walker.
I think she must be feeding a cat, or cleaning up puke;
the spectrum of caring.
Holly is in heat and howling.
I can't find my Proventil, it tastes so much better than the other brands.
I think I might just have some fruity pebbles.
tlp
Danté Le Beau Feb 2020
I’m a man,
This much is a fact,
Yet I fret for my hair,
And I know I’m not alone.
I’m a man,
This much is a fact,
Yet I fear I’m too thin,
And I know I’m not alone.
I’m a man,
This much is a fact,
Yet I’m concerned I’m not muscular enough,
And I know I’m not alone.
I'm a man,
This much is a fact,
Yet I fear that I’m not manly enough,
And I know that I’m not alone.
I’m a man,
This much is a fact,
And I have my own insecurities projected from multiple sources,
And I know I’m not alone.
Geanna Jun 2018
Do you know it feels to look
in the mirror and be
disgusted with what you see?
To always think you're a fat pig

Do you know how it feels to starve?
To feel your body eat itself
To hear your stomach
beg you for food

Do you know how it feels to
constantly work out?
To continue even if you're tired
and start crying

Do you know how it feels to force
yourself to *****?
To re-taste every meal and
have it all come rushing back out
To clean your ***** off of the toilet

If not, then congrats
You don't have Body Dysmorphia, Anorexia nor Bulimia

If so, then i'm truly sorry
just know that you're not alone
Things will eventually get better, I promise
~ G.P.O
I made this a bit over a year ago. I added the very last part
calion Mar 2014
lose two grandmothers
begin panicking about death
eat to avoid panicking
get bullied every day
wear larger clothes than your mother
suffer from extreme dysmorphia
begin self harming
keep self harming
try to stop
keep going
begin cycling consumption
fail
write about how food is the only thing that hasn't left
get told by your mother to go to church
go to church
begin to get better
get worse
reject common beliefs of your church
become a red-letter Christian
fall in love
fall hard
move schools
pass mirrors
don't cry anymore
start dieting
not starving
dieting
lose seven pounds
realize weight doesn't define you
weight doesn't define you.
In health class,
they presented a visual that represented
one pound of fat, and I
can't escape the image because I have
the equivalent of 32.89
yellowish blocks in my messy girl-
body; 23% of my existence is
gelatinous and imperfect.

The magazines scream
acceptance, but the models are
size 2
and I want to make myself
bleed. "Boys love curves! Honey, your figure is
perfect."
...but it isn't about boys in
high school or men on the streets with their
***** eyes and intent to corrupt. The
struggle is in how my hip-
bones sing at the prospect of
prominence even though I could find
sustenance in nothing but lettuce and
Red Bull Zero and I would still want
to swallow razor blades and
Ipecac until the basin fills
with blood and food that
smelled too powerful
to ignore and felt like sin when it
tumbled into my stomach acid.

My size eight body doesn't look like
I'm sick because I still have
full hips and everyone sees
me with something chocolate in my
hand, and girls who eat, girls with
cellulite are never
as troubled as the models whose
ribs look like bird cages that trap
their hummingbird hearts. I tell
my friends that I'm having a bad
day, which will pass, but I've been
having these "bad days" since I was
eight years old and I saw
that the thighs exposed by my
stretchy,
orange shorts were too wide
to be beautiful. I was size
0 when I was twelve, but every-
one else was still shopping in
the children's section.

They call it body dysmorphia and
talk about self-esteem because
bulimia
is an ugly word that implies
ruined enamel, blistered lips, and
hospital gowns. Real girls let calories
nestle into their bodies because
bathrooms aren't glamorous,
and no one wants to kiss
a mouth that tastes like
*****.

My therapist's office is supposed
to feel safe, but all I want to
do is shatter the mirror and
slice my body open on the
frame's teeth. The spines of the books
on her wall remind me that other
girls have blood stained bras in
their closet, and jagged cliffs in
their minds, and maybe that should
help even though they aren't here
to hold my hair back or
stroke my arm until the earth-
quakes in my head slow down enough
that I can stand.

A boy who used to love me is
pulling away as though this
is a slow dance, and I'm
trying to hold too
tightly... My was
always an adventure film, but
the fight scenes have grown
repetitive and the special effects
have weakened with
time. No one knows when the
credits will roll, and that isn't
the kind of suspense he
wants when he has a girlfriend
and a future.
I am exhausting.

Shoelaces look like nooses when I
feel this alone because
I see escape in every-
thing.
This isn't an ideation, I
just want to
sleep.

Disgusting globules of yellow
ugliness bulge under
v-necks that used to make me
feel desirable and maybe
even powerful. Now the only power
comes from hunger
pains and the dizziness
of an empty stomach.

Senior year, and my nights are
razor blades instead of
rolling papers, rivulets of
blood replacing shots of someone's
parents' whiskey. No one wants
to be friends with girls in
sweatshirts who don't know how
to eat; we're suicide
watch, even if we don't want
to die...
I stopped writing suicide
notes. I am
fine.

The doctors call it isolating
even though I know the humane
thing to do is separate parasite
and host, especially if
they loved me before I
needed salvation...
No one signs up to be a life
preserver.

— The End —