I know something's wrong
So I try to lose myself in song

It starts when I compare
My shape to the one over there
And I sit and despair

Whenever I hear someone's size
I look and memorize
So later I can beat myself up
For not looking like that in someone's eyes

I hate clothes shopping
Because my clothes are never in the front half of the rack
At home I always end up crying

When I got sick
And my stomach ached
They said to just make myself puke


I froze
I got scared
Because if I did, and I learned how
Who knows how many times
I would use that knowledge

let me tell you how it all happened

they'll tend to tell you bullies caused it
or that everyone has the same experience
and it starts because
other people
forced it to

but what i have to tell you
is that i did it to
myself
i'm a turncoat
to my own flesh

i would look in the mirror and see
a gut
and suddenly
that was all i could see

no matter if my calves were toned
or my arms were sticks
i saw that gut
or my
curdled thighs
and that was all

so i'd say i wasn't hungry
or i'd "sleep" through a meal
and i'd work extra hard at practice
pretend i wasn't always run down

and even if i'd pass out
or struggle to stay awake
i'd pretend like it was sleep
i was depriving myself of sleep

and you know that cycle
in every anorexic girl's story
where her body bloats before it thins
because it's trying to protect her

i went harder in that stage
so i could lose the weight that made me a 2
instead of 00
and i would cry myself to sleep
because i was in pain
mental
and physical

but i couldn't stop the
taunts
i gave
myself

my dad would tell my friends
to make sure i would
eat
but i never listened

and now i look back
and see my former shell-f
a self that had no self
a self that was only

a shell

a turncoat

anorexic

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
They told her
As she dug her fingernails deep into her skin
Like her flesh was made out of playdoh
In the uncautious hands of a toddler.
Her life balances dangerously on her tongue,
steadied only by a love she will not swallow
For she has been told
“Too much sugar will rot your teeth.”

i do good for my body,
so why does it hate me?
why, when i step on that scale
do i die a little inside?
why why why
why can't i ever be content
with how i look or feel.
man, i am tired;
i am tired of waiting
to be good enough for myself.
man, i am sick;
i am sick of crying
over the slight belly fat
and the cellulite
i graciously received from
my mother.
the curves i have been told
i am blessed to have,
feel like a curse.
the small, teardrop-shaped *******;
the baby-faced knee caps;
the hips shaped like
the body of a violin;
the thighs that touch,
that rub against one another
when i run, dance, walk
you name it
****.
****, is right.
body dysmorphia.
do you understand what i am saying now?
do you UNDERSTAND?
do you get the pain
of looking into a mirror
and seeing a disgusting creature.
like looking through a glass
of water and seeing
a morphed, unsightly image.
the skin i am in,
this skin stained with imperfections:
stretch marks, scars, moles, freckles,
skin tags, dimples, fat, sun damage;
the marks of love and growth
and progress and puberty.
i cannot shed this skin.
i need to learn
to live with this skin.
it is the skin i am in.

Focused on the reflection,
You forget your outer perception.

Body dysmorphia,
Obsession.

True projection through hindsight reflection.

Mirrors are all traitors
As in them I can see
Just what a monster I am;
That I will always be.
I have lumps and and spots
That make me unloveable.
And everything I eat is
Another bite of trouble.

Why can’t I ever look
Like the models in the book?
Why is it that I
Can’t look myself in the eye?
No one will look longingly
At the gorgon I turned out to be.

I don’t watch cartoons
Because what I see is me
What did I do to deserve
To become so **** ugly?
Did I cross the path of a cat
That was an omen meant to warn
And I ignored it so now
I inherited this awful form?

Why can’t I be the kind
With a beautifully formed behind?
I wish it was my history
To stimulate evil jealousy.

I want to look like a dream,
But instead I must surrender
A fragile wish, as it seems
An unfilled hope altogether.
Some friends are sweet to me
They say I look fine to them,
But I know what I can see
And I deserve no diadem.

More often than not I wake up in the morning wishing that I could shed this body like a second skin. If only it were that easy. As if I wear my shame like a jacket that I can unzip and toss over my chair when I get home. As if it were not a seed whose roots have grown deep in my skin, and crept their way into my veins. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve been ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, all I can seem to think of is how long it will take for her fingers to recoil. I wonder when she will realize that her hands don’t like the bumpy texture of my flesh. That my skin doesn’t hug my bones quite like it should. That I’ve got curves in all the wrong places. I wonder how long it will take for her to see me the way that I see myself. I know that I’m sick. It’s a disease without a cure. No matter how much you refuse to eat, it will always eat away at you. There is no running from this. You must lie down. And as she kisses your neck and reaches for your thigh, pull her closer. Let her know you trust her. Let her trace your bumpy flesh like hills and valleys, let her wander. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve ben ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, I let her.  Because this is how we learn to love ourselves. This is how we heal.

What can be more painful than a raging soul?
A body full of scars
A body drowned in suffering;
Dysmorphic image of a broken soul
So thin ,so close to nothing ,
So broken ,so close to sorrow
In pain, the body lies
The inked image of this broken heart.
Write poems not scars in thy skin,
Scripted history, the body is your friend.

they said that my collarbones
was a fascinating sight,
my bones looks as if they're dying to escape
like how words fall from my mouth.
so i avoided things that could fill me
and satisfied myself with the feeling of hollow.
maybe the one can effortlessly lift me
as we kiss in the pouring rain
and i would never have to squeeze lemons
into a fabric again.
my bones will form a sharp edge
preventing people from hurting me again
and someday, i will feel safe.

although there would be nights
of scratching my skins and biting my lips
until i can taste again - a sense i havent used in days.
there would be pain from the center
i will cry but they will stay.
because people only likes to touch beautiful & frail things.
the more ethereal you look,
the more they'll handle you with care
and thats the saddest truth i learned.

i will continue to make myself look like a stick
so maybe people will stick with me.