poetry.

to the disorder that ate me alive

the feeling of starving

was always a drug to me

and the need to go farther

was sometimes all I could see

seeing my bones

protruding through my skin

and feeling so alone

with the darkness within

oh to be hungry

to be empty and void

to die numbly

as if it were my choice

I feel the best when I'm hungry

and I only feel pretty

when I'm addicted to something

and now, isn't that shitty?

see the number on the scale dropping

just like my will to be alive

with no intention of stopping

and my heart in a bind

that's what pride feels like

that's what feels so good

not life, not being alive

but resisting and resenting food

when I am skinny

I will love myself

when I am pretty

I will stop this hell

until then, there is no end

to this war in my head