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The pain is rising up again,
I feel it build and build - and then
My feet they march auto-matically,
To the room that's become my sanc-tuary
On knees so bruised and scratched, I kneel
The pain in my heart makes it hard not to keel
But with a sigh and a heave - my hurt flows out
And everything is calm again, without a doubt.
The world slips away, with my pain, as I lie
On the cold tiled floor and wonder if I'll die
I feel empty, and small, like the shy, timid mouse
Who is trapped in the walls - of her hard, defensive house.
green-eyed girl, grass-green eyed girl with pretty hands, silky skin, adorably plump little fingers. freckles on your nose and secrets on the threshold of your lips.
you don't like speaking to say nothing, so you don't speak all that much. it's like when you're around other people, something is keeping those shapely lips of yours tight shut. maybe a length of string, or maybe just the invisible weight of all those
a boy flirted with you once, last year. he had ice-blue eyes and mountain-strong shoulders.
"oh come on, won't you kiss me, just this once?" he begged after fruitless weeks of going after you.
you looked him, for the first time, straight in his ice-cold eyes, knew you had the power to make them melt. there was sweat on your palms and you realized that you wanted to make them melt.
you cracked your lips open like chipping a porcelain bowl and laughed, loudly, carelessly, beautifully.
"you wish," you told him, and flounced off.
you stumbled home that afternoon, threw y
Matt and Bima
Matt ran up the stairs, and rushed into the bathroom. Leaning over the toilet he shoved two bony fingers down his throat. Moments later, Matt was puking up his dinner. Looking in the porcelain bowl in front of him, he counted the lasagna and breadsticks. The wax beans weren't there! Terrified, he clawed at his stomach, willing it to pour its left-over contents onto the linoleum floor.
He pushed his fingers back deep into his throat, only receiving a few gags. When the food refused to come out, Matt curled up against the wall and cried, rocking himself back and forth. Twenty minutes later, he stood, regained his composure and walked down the hall to his room. Matt grabbed his football bag and jogged down the stairs, and to the car, where his mother sat patiently humming along to the radio. She had in her favorite Superchick CD which was coincidentally playing and replaying the song, Courage.
read this in reverse.
a. i can hardly see her skin through the bones.
the girl i love is ensnared, hopelessly trapped inside her ribcage, her shoulder blades, her femurs.
her bones are white as the milky way. she is paper-crane delicate, and she is killing herself just to live.
we will cry at her funeral.
i. today, she looks over at us and smiles sadly.
"that must take a lot of effort," you whisper to me.
"what, smiling?" i ask. she has turned away, and i stare at the ginger highlights in her silky mahogany hair.
"no," you say quietly, "or, well, yes, in a way. i meant being kind in general, when she's starving."
we look directly into each others' desperate eyes. literally, each of us is thinking.
she walks over to us, graceful as a ballerina, her hair swaying slightly.
"hey guys, how are you?"
we both nod, grinning, to avoid answering. you take a step forward to hug her.
i focus on her bony wrist, thinking about how i could wrap my fingers all the way around it and have room to spare.
Why do I do this?
Why did I give into non-bliss?
Ana is my best friend
But she constantly chooses to condesend.
"You're so fat"
"You are as ugly as a sewer rat"
"Eat less you whore"
"Oh don't act like such a chore"
I do what she says
So I can be his
He will love me if my best friend is Ana
He won't even notice my lack of plasma
Oh I feel so sick
But I'm still as heavy as a brick
Dear Ana, Please leave me alone
I need to leave your combat zone
I don't need you as my stepping stone
I slowly put food in my mouth
I'm scared this will go south
I swallow the food
Surpirsingly... Ana doesn't brood.
"I could only ever be bulimic I love food too much!"
"Well, I was bulimic... Still, actually."
"But why? You're so beautiful."
"Well, that the point, isn't it?"
"Tell me, are you one of those people who believe you shouldn't care what others say?"
"Yeah. You shouldn't care about that kind of stuff."
"Well, I don't care what others say. That's the problem. No matter how many people tell me I'm beautiful, no matter how many, I will always think I'm fat and ugly. I don't care what others think. I think the same way as those who believe they are wonderful and beautiful no matter what other people say."
"So, no one can help you. That's... depressing."
"Actually, someone can."
This girl walks the halls
wishing that windows didn't exist (those evil things, lurking in the walls)
That she had enough powerful to walk past them
But she can't
She's pulled to look
As though the glass has a gravity of its own (and we all know, gravity is a law that can't be defied)
gasping for air
it's one of those moments where skinny isn't enough.
you're living a nightmare you created in your own consciousness just so
you could abuse yourself more. crisscrossed scars and scorch marks aren't enough anymore,
so you learned how to lie.
you taught yourself the best way to shove delicate fingers down a scrawny throat because despite how your mother looks pleased as you clean your plate,
she doesn't equal beauty.
so you learned how to vomit quietly because starving yourself always led to
the same routine of binging, and you would watch the scales rise.
at night you lay awake with the number seven etched across your brain.
you are a size six, reminding yourself that size four is american size zero.
you teach yourself to distract yourself from the hunger pains, but it
always amounts to something. seven - stone, you fat whale,
you enormous bitch, fattie.
nineteen - years it took for your sister to realise she was happier
two - years it's been since you threw yourse
She Just Wanted Beauty..
You don't know the reason she doesn't eat
You don't understand the reasons she goes through all of this.
Its deep down inside that she knows its wrong,
but she can't stop;
She knows she could die,
But knowing she has a nice body is all that really counts.
She doesn't care if she gets sick,
She doesn't care if you notice.
All she wants is to look pretty;
Her mother doesn't get close enough to realize,
her father doesn't care,
Her closest friends thinks she just isn't hungry.
She wants to be noticed by boys,
she wants to have the 'look' that everyone wants.
She wants to be envied.
She wants to feel noticed, wanted, beautiful.
And she will risk her well being just for all of that.
Her days become a blur,
The life she wanted has yet to come alive.
Everything she risked was not enough.
She sits and waits,
wondering when she will look pretty.
Her days are numbered,
Her thoughts limited,
she wonders if it was actually worth it,
Risking herself to be beautiful.
As her ey
I'm so, so hungry...
But I don't even care.
I see my family eating dinner...
But no, I wouldn't dare.
I look into the mirror,
And I still hate what I see
Maybe if I keep this up a while,
You'll see the real me.
School lunch comes and goes
And my friends still give me glares
I stare at them right back
As if to say that I don't care.
I know this could be fatal
But I don't care if I die...
As long as I look pretty soon
It's worth it, though I cry.
I've been doing this a month now...
It's beginning to have effect.
Yet I'm still just not too pretty...
This isn't working how I'd expect.
But now I can't stop starving,
My stomach is too small...
Yet, I don't regret it..
Maybe I'll be pretty after all.
Slowly losing vision,
Slowly losing strength
Slowly losing everything...
And I have vanity to thank.
But again, I will be pretty
At least once before I go...
Did you all see the real me?
Well, now I'll never know.~
bulimia nervosa, in d minor
you're very pretty, in a heart-wrenching kind of way.
your scrawny arms, usually sporting silver or gold bracelets which look more alive than you sometimes, your skin is so frighteningly pale.
he loves you, you know.
yes. you know.
your arms lead up to your shoulder blades, like branches on a delicate tree. a willow.
a weeping willow.
shoulder blades. razor sharp, those, sticking out of your back as if they had been wrenched apart and away
he wonders whether you want to fly. one day you told him,
sometimes, i'd like to fade away. have you ever thought of that? just close my eyes and disappear.
i wouldn't die, no, not exactly. i would still feel the wind blowing through my hair, i would still see the grass rustling, maybe i could even stand up and feel
it beneath my feet. i love the feel of dew, you know. it's such a gentle complement to the scratchy blades.
you always go off on tangents such as these. other roads. other ways. other trains
of thought. you aren't very
I don't want to eat
So I don't
If I eat I throw it up again
I rid myself of it
Until it's all gone.
You think I do it because I want to be skinny
That I think I'm fat
That I don't like how I look.
You think I starve myself for vanity.
Think about that for a second, and actually consider how crazy that is...
Starve myself? For my physical appearance?
Do I look more confident to you?
Does it look like this makes me happier?
Than do you still think I do this for that stupid reason?
I don't want to eat
So I don't
If I eat I throw it up again
I rid myself of it
Until it's all gone
But it's not because of vanity.
My life every day is spinning out of control,
I have problems - personal issues,
With my family situation, my friends,
bullying, or other things,
These things make me feel small,
Scared because I am out of control of my own life...
But this, this I CAN control,
My body does what I tell it to
I don't eat, and I can keep my body from eating