You didn’t appear suddenly, not like other boys. You were written, scribbled in a seven-year-old’s scrawl of a notepad. Every fault in my words, every pulse in my heart led me blindly yet knowingly, into your very arms. It is true when they say that all must be destroyed of ourselves for us to build once more and so when my demolition led to a line down my wrist there you were and you were smiling. You, just you, were the end of what I thought was a continuous road. You presented me with adult love, so thick and changed from puppy-dog adoration previously experienced and so as I mended my errors I wrapped myself neatly, folding into a tiny note to pass in the dead of the night between our fingers tips perpetually grazed despite another boys body dancing around my hand. You accepted still, and you took me openly, tucking me away beyond your defences wrapped in layers of crossroads and epiphanies so that never could I ever retrace my road. From your pocket I live, in a river of you I float, much like drift-wood, being submerged further and further in your rapids. Each snapshot of us is slowed, yet still a violent tempest, tense with fury and affection and when I might blow in the winds of self-hatred you sail me to safety once more.
The reality might be ugly, but it is true and you all are pseudo-girls, matching your personality to your shoes. How others cannot see your cruelty shamed over your pasty, foundation-slick faces I will never know but always, forever will that be the flaw I cannot unsee. There are no subtleties in my prose or quiet wars of dislike, this it to the point, hitting it to a tee, brutal, no game of play pretend. Imagine that you all are a star in my sky and think, think that all those “pretty” little lights shimmer and explode, burn and perish - this is what you are all to me. Your expenditure of energy spent so preciously on being awful, will soon near it’s end and you will all be gone, your deaths as a point in my universe just as pathetic as their beginnings.
Please, no reblogging this.
Sometimes I feel although writing things out is more therapeutic than talking to anybody in the world. I never confront the issues drifting underneath, even my family, boyfriend and counsellor realize that this would just cause another war on my body to begin. But I finally managed to put into words I think suitable something I’ve struggled to explain.
The (seemingly) million dollar question, the thing they all want to know - what do I mean when I say ‘I’m fat?’ and what is ‘fat’ to me?
To me fat is being clumsy, being bigger in height than everyone else, having everything in a larger proportion, clothes being too small and dresses/skirts too short. It’s about feeling loud and angry when I want to be petite, a mouse. It’s about tripping over nothing when they glide over air, it’s being uneasy in my own body and feeling stupid for trying to act as they all do. It is going to discos and socials and gigs and having that feeling of “why do I bother” and just knowing I can be spotted from a distance even in that crowd. It’s having my feet almost reach the end of my bed, my shoes being two sizes bigger than those of others. Fat is how I’ve always eaten my food quicker than the people I am sharing the meal with and not even doing it in a proper manner, not holding my knife and fork right. Fat is going back for seconds when they’re not even half way through one portion. Fat is never being satisfied, always wanting more - more of food, more of love, more of happiness - fat is being greedy.
With this there always comes the normal definitions of being overweight, not seeing bones, pouches of lard and all sorts of nasty unwanted flab. But losing that is just a part of what I aim/ed for. I aim/ed to be graceful, to be little.
Grim, but beautiful and special with hidden compartments leaving only wonderment. I used to have that, it used to be mine. But now, a sick person’s mind and a well person’s body. We should have known all along that this will not, can not mix with anoretic eyes. I would not, could not be held steady by even the most stable of hands and heart and mind and so while you dance around I want to take a knife to that delicate throat, steal it back, but then I might cradle you, like a wounded bird I could nurse you back to responsibilities and windows too small for us to fit. I could show you their “better life”, the one they fill with even more hunger, with even more scales and numbers and observation. They tell us it will ease, that we will scab over and heal, but the pristine disorder remains with arms wider than this whole world, a head full of resolve more bulletproof than even the sturdiest of therapies. We were destined to fall again, with a lover so attentive how, even in a “perfect” world, could we not?
Welcome back, old friend misery.
I know lots of people I love with all my heart will read this and I love you all and it does still hurt, a lot. These are my words, and I do not mind people sharing them, so long as I am allowed credit for my pain.
My kissing tears are vanquished
when I watch the ocean fold
the waves tumbling, teasing
too great, too much to hold.
If ever there was a fate
which would ever please me more
it would to be drowning in something,
not me,
but protecting untouched floor.
I can’t create an obstacle for you to cross, the ladders up my wrists, climbing towards my heart are enough.
Each morning I taste the night and weep for the thrills I chose not to chase.
I hide in peppermint dreams
chews and spits
throw backs
and throw ups
all destroying my body
one bite at a time
Arms laden
A seniors workload.
Are you tired?
Or are you burnt out?
You didn’t sleep last night, did you?
Not a whimper, not a sliver
Your eyes have never looked blacker, dear.
And you’ve never felt heavier.
