Documenting life; my struggles and triumphs.
Dark circles around her eyes,
blue nail beds,
and a battered esophagus.
She approaches the front desk.
Oh, this is the girl
that needs the special vitals.
Shame.
Lay down.
Stand up.
I wonder whats wrong with her?
Lay down.
Stand up.
I wonder what broke her?
She steps on the scale
to find out if she’s in trouble
or not.
She wants to be in trouble
this gives her a feeling of control.
Sit down in the chair.
Confess.
Go home.
Restrict.
Lay down.
Little women.
Praise them for their shape.
For the sharp angles
their bones make underneath their skin.
Little women.
Try to fix themselves.
Force themselves to eat dinner.
But anxiety takes control,
and surrenders progress
to a secluded porcelain vessel.
Little women.
Have been broken from the start.
Fake smiles.
Fake laughs.
Fake bites of food
that they push around on their plate.
Make it seem like it’s all OK.
Little women.
Fade away.
Right before your eyes.
Don’t say anything.
Or offer to help.
That makes you uncomfortable.
It’s not worth it.
Little women.
Can’t control their little heartbeats.
The body runs out of solutions.
Little women.
Die suddenly.
When their broken heart stops.
At least they were resilient.
Step on the scale – decide if you want to like yourself today.
A three digit number, you hoped it’d be smaller.
If you were a fifth grader – you’d have an excuse to weigh 95.
Stop drinking water, and don’t lick the seal of that U.S. envelope.
Two calories count – when you’re working towards zero.
They’ll watch you fade away, and keep their mouths shut.
They’d rather deny you help – than admit they created a broken girl.
Die in front of their eyes. Then try to love yourself afterwards.
Fade. Fade. FADE.
Fix yourself – it’s the least you can do.
How dare you burden others with mental health.
We’re all perfect and happy – don’t ruin that.
You don’t deserve help.
Ashes.
Float away in the wind.
Love.
Deteriorates overnight.
Smoke.
Blows away in the air.
Feelings.
Were nothing but a fallacy. Doomed from the start.
Tar.
Builds up in your lungs. It makes you feel alive.
Promises.
Made with no intention of fulfillment.
Betrayal.
Is hard to understand.
When promises.
Never sounded so real.
Pro-life.
Pro-man-slave housewife with no opinions of her own.
Pro-telling others what to do with their bodies.
Pro-no refugee babies in my country!
Pro-shoving billboards of dismantled fetuses in your face.
Pro-insensitivity.
Pro-you should’ve had a baby with the boyfriend that beats you black and blue.
Pro-it’s OK if he locks you in the closet when you’re bad.
Pro-you probably deserved it for even thinking about aborting the life within your whom.
Pro-you’re a murderer.
Pro-we’re going to make you feel guilty about the decision that saved your life.
Pro-you can’t tell anyone about this traumatic experience because you will be judged.
Pro-hide your guilt deep down inside.
Pro-don’t you wish you could abort that decision you made when you were 19 and homeless?
Pro-you deserve to suffer.
Our lives were tangled together.
Beautiful vines
with delicate flowers
that would lift their heads up
towards the glow of our love.
Nourished.
Whole.
Healthy.
Our garden bloomed.
I would run my fingers
through the bed of coarse and black
perennial locks upon your crown,
just to hear your sighs of satisfaction and contentment.
Days were spent basking in our sunlight
that seemed impossible to eclipse.
The garden grew,
and it became much too large for us to care for.
I found myself lost in the labyrinth of
your Venus flytraps.
Sharp tongues
nipping at my body.
A new species of flora
that I helped to cultivate.
The garden began to wilt.
Colorful blossoms were replaced
with unsightly weeds.
Our beautiful vines
began to grow thorns
and slowly untangle themselves.
Our sun began to set.
Together we fashioned a lasso
and tried to catch it.
But the thorns from our solitary vines
frayed our attempts at retrieval.
Our love was escaping
from our clutches.
At dusk you told me
you didn’t love me anymore.
Now I sit
in the darkness
alone
digging as deep as I can
to I bury these seeds
where they will never see sunlight again.
It’s the only thing I can control.
I can run my fingers along my ribs
and imagine the triumphant tune they could play
if they were cello strings.
This means I’m in control.
If I relieve this hunger,
I may have to feel something else.
If I stop thinking about calories,
I may have to think about you.
This self-restraint gives me strength.
When a person leaves your life in ruins,
sometimes you are not strong enough to pick up the pieces.
But you have the strength to fade away.
At least you’re the one in control,
of your own evaporation.
You were my life support;
you put the air in my lungs
and sent blood coarsing
through my veins.
But this machine could not provide
the will I needed:
to love,
sacrifice,
persist.
So I’ll pull the plug.
and set us free.
I’m sorry I couldn’t do this for us.
What must I do to breakthrough an uncompromising exterior?
Relentless attempts incite mutual exasperation.
Your acceptance, appreciation, admiration:
Out of stock. unobtainable.
How long must I wait to receive an affirmation?
Open your eyes and observe the pain and confusion you inflict.
Damsel in Profess 