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My dearest Ana

You are my only friend and saviour

You’re the only one who understands

Ana, my companion

You have ascended me to glory

Thanks to you I feel like I can fly

My body knows no weight to carry

I have seen the lights thanks to you

I can fall asleep and know

With you, Ana, by my side

I would never have to wake up again

Saltwater runs down the bathroom wall

I hug my legs so tightly they might snap

as I tear away from your gaze,

read into every letter your lips write me.

All I can hear you say is

you’re trying to block the monsters

not monsters

from turning my soul into junkyard scraps

but I want to tell you they’re not the bad kind,

they’re the fragile kind people want to collect and

hang in their pretty houses

in patterns and packages

and pretend it makes them quirky.

My bones and soul are cracked and rusted

and almost too little to live

but in my eyes they’re so beautiful…

You can be pretty too,

I have connections

I’ll let them whisper in your ear

so the metal turns colors and

looks like a feather

that’s so good at whispering softly to your skin,

and a kaleidoscope drifts

into your beautiful eyes,

the monsters

not monsters

can perfect you too.

With the letters I can bend my bones into,

I can almost spell the names

of things I can’t have like

strawberries and that half bite of chocolate

They remind me of all the times

you told me

Have a taste.

But I can’t, I count so carefully

Every move is a heartbeat

Every sound is a stab

Every smell is something the monsters

not monsters

hold over me.

But I’m telling you right now

I’m in control

I’m so in control

You can be pretty too.

Just let me tell you.

It's been so long since I've attempted to write about getting better.

For in the same breath that I assured my father that I was going to be okay, I choked on my own vomit and melted into the bathroom floor.

So, when I'm writing this garbage about acceptance with myself.

I can't help to feel like a hypocrite as I organize my priorities and put my well-being at the bottom of the shelf.

It's haunting because I've been in this distancing daze for years, but the triggers are so ripe and intense when they find me.

How can I tell anyone to look up or relax... when I am holding hands with bloody knuckles and smiling with a mouthful of decay.

If I even tried to compile a list of what's eating at me, I'd probably just eat it first and throw it up and hope that what I had to feel disoriented about was good enough to be considered depressed. An excuse I need to pardon myself from the chaos I've subjected you to. The name for myself when manic is busy, when numbness is too conflicting to bare. 

For even if I had tears in my eyes, they would need to have a viable reason for being there. When they tell you that you're doing this to yourself and in anger and in rage I beg you not to stare for my perception of my reflection and neutral demeanor aren't tangible things I can unravel into an excuse because they're so tightly bound and secured to my ego and sickened by the asymmetry  of my face and the sound of my own voice.

How could I tell you that it isn't anything except for the fact that I am and will be. 

That I honestly cannot picture myself a year from now, that I couldn't tell you if I'd even be here.

While I reach out to others and help them find their way, I refuse to apply what I believe to myself because I am so incredibly undeserving.

Blindly reaching for my incentive to leave behind the comfort of self-doubt , and am I really suprised when cannot find a reasom enough to fill the spaces I've dug out.

I take a disgusting amount of time to decorate my ship and send it out to sea and hope that it sinks.

And pity myself every night for not being the person that if I didn't do this, I could so easily be.

I've cried myself to sleep, high on things I couldn't name.

Staying up and over-processing, and towards the morning I feel what resembles okay.

So, this is me writing something about getting better.

I hope that someday I can say that I have.

But for now, if I wrote something about getting better.

I might never write a conclusion.

Won't even know how to start.

It's been so long since I've attempted to write about getting better.

For in the same breath that I assured my father that I was going to be okay, I choked on my own vomit and was pleased with myself. 

So, when I'm writing this garbage about acceptance with myself.

I can't help to feel like a hypocrite as I organize my priorities and put my well-being at the bottom of the shelf.

It's haunting because I've been in this anhedonic daze for years, but the triggers are so ripe and intense when they find me.

How can I tell anyone to look up or relax... when I am holding hands with bloody knuckles and smiling with a mouthful of decay.

If I even tried to compile a list of what's eating at me, I'd probably just eat it first and throw it up and hope that what I had to feel disoriented about was good enough to be considered depressed.

For even if I had tears in my eyes, they would have to have a viable reason for being there.

And my reflection and demeanor isn't something I can't unravel into an excuse because they're so tightly bound and secured to my heart and I feel sick with my unamused expression and the sound of my own voice.

How could I tell you that it isn't anything except for the fact that I am in living inside of a person that wants to evict me. 

That I honestly cannot picture myself a year from now, that I couldn't tell you if I'd even be here.

While I reach out to others and help them find their way, I refuse to apply what I believe to myself because I am so incredibly undeserving.

Then I obsess over a boy, and am offended when he cannot fill the spaces I've dug out.

I take a disgusting amount of time to decorate my ship and send it out to sea and hope that it sinks.

And pity myself every night for not being the person that if I didn't do this, I could so easily be.

I've cried myself to sleep, high on things I couldn't name.

Staying up and over-processing, and towards the morning I feel what resembles okay.

So, this is me writing something about getting better.

I hope that someday I can say that I have.

But for now, if I wrote something about getting better.

I might never write a conclusion.

Won't even know how to start.

Tired, and sunken eyes,

She stares into the mirror,

At a body she has grown to despise,

She squints to see it clearer,

She doesn't notice her bony limbs,

Her delusional mind, sees only fat,

She craves not food, but only to be thin,

Her stomach to be completely flat,

She stares at herself, with clouded eyes,

She crumbles to the ground, in a wailing heap,

Her voice to weak, for anyone to hear her cries,

Another day gone, without something to eat,

She wanders the world, lost in her mind,

She just wanted to be pretty,

She has lost track of life, lost track of time,

She just wanted to be skinny,

As she walks, her body begins to fade,

Pain cuts through her body, like a knife,

She won't live to see another day,

Anorexia, has taken another life.

I'm not hungry

But I have to eat something

To take away the pain

So I'll eat

My guilt

My shame

And my sadness

Because that alone

Is enough

To fill me

Sticks and Stones

Ribs and Bones

They told me words should never hurt me

Skin pulled taught

The food on my plate left to rot

"She looks thin"

Whispers and stares

I am left with despair

Hair is weak

Bones peek

Why can't I just be perfect?

Thinspiration
a spiritual-ascetic flavour
fasting through
metaphors of bodily purity
food through
imagery of angels and angelic flight
Exhortations like
Ana's Creed and
The Ana Commandments

I'm not eating the young girl said with a smile
Her mood on a dial, she acts like a child
The people surrounding her see nothing at all
Her frail little body is slowed to a crawl
She's sick of her best friend who says not to eat
She's done with her body, she's dead on her feet
Her sleep is diminished with nightmares and pain
Her friends have all left her and she's lonely and shamed
She ponders and ponders the days she has left
Because now she wonders how many to death