Maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away.
Maybe if I spill my guts to a room of strangers I will no longer feel the danger
Maybe, just perhaps. If I **** in my stomach for long enough, it will leave me alone.
If you put a frog in boiling water they will jump out, if you put a girl in a corset she will shout that it’s too small! It won’t hold all of me and why would I want it to?
You see, cooking girls is a lot like cooking frogs, you’ve got to promise them cold water on a hot day, and you’ve got to promise that you’ll accept them even if they’re gay. If their legs are hairy, if their thighs are knee deep in celluloid you’ve got to insist that you can sit with them at the dinner table and while you’re slowly cranking up the hot water dial, you’ve got to let them believe that they’re not on trial, and when the water gets warmer so slowly that they can’t feel it until it’s too late.
You’ve got to create an atmosphere for deceit so when you hand them the revolver, it’s because they were the first ones to reach.
It’ll start with her friends, they’ll make comments about her plate size, or they’ll joke that they themselves have an “eating disorder” Only that they’ll, eat dis-order and dis-order and she’ll laugh and choke down another serving, while trying to order the thoughts in her mind, trying to find a way to respond to the obvious oddities of her social standings and trying not to be standing too close to the bomb when it drops, and when it goes off she’ll offer her baby fat as a portion of the poison that put her in this position in the first place.
So yeah, maybe if I write about it it’ll go away, maybe if I open my lungs like she opens her throat and purge the thoughts I’ve got squished into size two jeans that seem like they fit, I’ve got a bit of a chance that I can stand against the enemy. Which in the end is me, mind you, my mind fighting against the trails that I’ve hidden behind, maybe my self-esteem is lower than they would have it seem, and maybe I make the mistake of seeming like I’ve got it together when in reality I’m just living in the shadows of rehabilitation and I’ve been debating with the part of me which is still holding the revolver, that maybe I’m not over it and there’s a good chance I’ll never be, which might be okay but could also cost me my life.
Who knows though, maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away, maybe if I tell people what I’m going through it’ll be harder to relapse maybe I can just collapse on the notion that I’m notoriously negative and critically cynical about myself which means I deserve to skip desert, maybe it’s called EDNOS because my eating disorder knows which buttons to push when, and which messages to send, like you look like a whale when you sit down, your thighs don’t touch the hold onto each other in desperation, the amount you put into your stomach can feed a small nation, maybe if you write about it it’ll go away? Do you think dispelling words onto a blank is the only personification I crave? Do you think I’m small enough to be crushed? Can’t you see that I can’t be killed?
All I know is that I can’t keep this inside, I can’t hide from the demons in my mind anymore, I’ve let them fester there too long, I’ve got layers of lies making for a disguise with too many holes to hold anything but *******, I’ve got to let some of it out, I can’t keep living like this, I can’t keep lying to myself, I have to put this part of my life on the self. I don’t know if this will help. I just know I need to let it out.
