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.
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
Close your mouth,
You can stop saying you're sorry,
Because I don't blame you,
For proving the truth,
That I am repulsive.
If all it took,
Was the ability to curve my fingers,
Into my flesh,
I'd strip away everything I ever ate,
That hangs off my body,
And hides the Anorexic within me.
All I ever want,
Is to be just as gorgeous,
As the sidewalk girls,
Maybe then you can grace my presence,
With your wandering eyes.
If all it took,
Was a razor to my skin,
I'd write poetry on my body,
And maybe you'll see,
How bad you hurt me,
With just your ignorance.
But I don't blame you,
For the tickling words,
That aggravate my senses,
Bittersweet temptations,
That strangle my heart.
I starve myself and tear up my skin,
And fall in love with my scars,
While you drift in your false reality,
Fallen for sidewalk girls.
Never realizing how invisible you make me feel...