recovery on a fat day
Apr. 27th, 2012 11:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bleedingangel84A/N: Trigger Warning-contains discussion of eating disorders and related issues. This poem is what recovery feels like to me when I'm having a hard time. This was written as a kind of catharsis for me. I have no idea why it feels easier to express these things in poetic form, but there you have it. If you have any feedback, it's highly welcome. Support is also highly appreciated. The lowercase title is because days like that are when I feel bad about myself, so they deserve lowercase letters. Illogical logic, I know, but if e.e. cummings can be quirky, why not me? So, on with the scribbles!
She wishes she could unzip herself
from the inside of her skin-
remove it, like a coat grown-
too heavy to bear.
She wants to step out-
show her skeleton-
she wants to hear them scream-
as she has so often screamed.
No one ever heard-
she whispered to herself-
it took all her strength-
to fight the voices in her head.
Control was all she wanted-
not thin-
not pretty-
not good enough-
never good enough-
They looped constantly-
until her brain was only-
a record being played-
at the wrong speed.
It was never about-
the outside of things-
she hated that part.
Always cold, even during-
sweltering summer heat-
curled up under a blanket-
with a long sleeved jacket on,
hugging herself for warmth
while shunning touch.
She picks up the fork-
takes a small bite-
chews until she wants to gag-
one down, one million to go.
The voices hiss at her-
food is the enemy-
food kills-
you fat, fat-
pig
She knows the voices-
they lie, but they are familiar-
the refrain is almost comforting-
it's predictable- Safe.
She's walking on a ledge-
as she crams in another bite-
get it over-
getitover,getitover,getitover-
Finally, the meal is done.
She cries-
happy or sad-
she never really knows.
She wonders if that really
matters-and thinks-
keep trying.
She wishes she could unzip herself
from the inside of her skin-
remove it, like a coat grown-
too heavy to bear.
She wants to step out-
show her skeleton-
she wants to hear them scream-
as she has so often screamed.
No one ever heard-
she whispered to herself-
it took all her strength-
to fight the voices in her head.
Control was all she wanted-
not thin-
not pretty-
not good enough-
never good enough-
They looped constantly-
until her brain was only-
a record being played-
at the wrong speed.
It was never about-
the outside of things-
she hated that part.
Always cold, even during-
sweltering summer heat-
curled up under a blanket-
with a long sleeved jacket on,
hugging herself for warmth
while shunning touch.
She picks up the fork-
takes a small bite-
chews until she wants to gag-
one down, one million to go.
The voices hiss at her-
food is the enemy-
food kills-
you fat, fat-
pig
She knows the voices-
they lie, but they are familiar-
the refrain is almost comforting-
it's predictable- Safe.
She's walking on a ledge-
as she crams in another bite-
get it over-
getitover,getitover,getitover-
Finally, the meal is done.
She cries-
happy or sad-
she never really knows.
She wonders if that really
matters-and thinks-
keep trying.
