bulimia

Old Friend

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Bulimia

Hello Old Friend, it's been a while

I thought you'd gone for good

Unstanced, I turned around

And in my way, you stood

 

I'd be lying if I were to say

That I never even missed you

But it was a happy break away

From all the mess you drag me through

 

I kinda knew you were knocking

I was ignoring you at all costs

But as I got weak and sicker

My control was at a loss

 

You had always been my crutch

My beloved hateful "frenemy"

Telling you to "get lost"

But keeping you so close to me

 

I fight and lose the war

Everytime you come back to play

It's the same thing as before

You take over day by day

 

"I'll let you in for just a bit;

But then you gotta go..."

And then you take a comfy seat

And make my mind your home

 

You promise lavish things to me

I've been through this all before

You lie, I hate you, but you're here

Taking more and more

 

No one knows you or what you do

You remain seen just to me

In my mind, taking over

Control is about to flee

 

You make me sick, you hurt me so

Please leave and don't come back

I know I need to just let go

But it's not as easy as all that

 

Just stay a bit then go away

I have to break this trend

Visit for just one more day

Then off you go, my friend

 

I try so hard to let you go

To push you out the door

But I love you too much to walk away

And I hate you even more

 

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Bulimia is a cycle of Hell and it's confusing whenever the cycle starts back up. You think you have control until it snatches you into its clutches and whirls you into another cycle. You love it. It's always been there for you. You hate it. It's slowly killing you. What's it matter anyway?

About Getting Better.

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.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

posted from my old account.

View iseespiders's Full Portfolio

About getting better

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.

 

View dampsoup's Full Portfolio

bait

I drop hooks into my throat

handfuls at time

masterful at this sport

feasting on everything I find

confident in my sickness

spit up the hooks before they reel in the line

View dampsoup's Full Portfolio
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