4.19.2017

This is not ego-driven

 

My waistline does not say vanity

It says you can experience the sweetness as long as it is the leftovers

Don’t indulge, but hold on to the goodness so that it is there

When you think you deserve it

Set constraints for your hunger cues – as if hunger is a battle, or a game to be won

 

And when you feel unsure

When your body is a shapeshifting mirage, projection of anxiety and dysphoria

Find your measuring tape

But don’t write anything down

Research scales, but do not buy them

 

You are recovered

 

Even when shrinking feels more like preservation than self-sacrifice

Even when you’re not sure of the difference

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4.3.17

Insecurity

Of stature, positioning

Word choice and identity

 

There is no cosmetic modification, superficial alteration

Capable of providing relief

No respite from dysphoria

 

But embellish me with glittering distractions from inner turmoil

Paint me, contour my surfaces

Hide me below layers of adornment

 

I am trying to stay hidden

Underneath eyelash

Underneath straightened, curled, and brushed

Primed, powdered, set

Disguised

 

But beneath, I shift

And even when my movement is not seen, it is felt

Seismic energy creating quivering pretense

2.25.2017

Tears and snowflakes falling at similar intervals

As I consider how you want to kill yourself in order to fertilize the breeding ground of your reincarnation

I am so in love with this version of you

I worry my heart will die when they do

 

I am mourning a loss that has not yet occurred

And wondering if there is a quota for how much pain can be accommodated within one relationship

I’m finding myself holding in my hurt

So that you may suffer more comfortably

 

It feels like familiar sickness

Contorting myself into tolerable doses

Eventually non-existence

While watching you bind and alter to attain your truest form

12.1.2016

Seams and plastic

Taught around my waist

Suffocating me

And it looks like bags under my eyes

And feels like floorboards on my cheek

Hot and cold all at once

There is not enough time in the day

Or clothing in my wardrobe

To hide satisfactorily

 

I am beautiful in the way broken glass is

Shards gleaming and sparkling in haphazard headlights

I am bruised and battered beneath the weight of my own fingertips

Like a peach, grasped by an ignorant child

 

I want to paint something beautiful but I do not want to be the canvas

Not tonight

Tonight I wish to be seen and loved as me, or not at all

Because I am running out of disguises

 

I remember entering the blackness on a dozen occasions

Without fear or hesitation

I am craving that escape

I long for the precipice of departure

But know this nausea will not take me there