It's getting bad again, I feel alone, no one has noticed, no one has noticed I've stopped eating, stopped doing my work, stopped going out, stopped answering my friends. As I devour two shots of coffee every morning and pick at the scars and wounds over my body, I wonder how does no one notice. I trace the inside of my thighs with my fingers, admiring how much they've shrunk. My red nail polish chips away, doing something different with your appearance apparently boots serotonin, I guess I agree it does, temporally.
It's getting bad again, I've stopped brushing my teeth, my hair, I can't shower, or shave. My skin has broken out, my lips are dried and ripped, *note to self Roaccutane stops working when you do*. I can't eat or smile or sleep. I can't pick a show to watch or a song to listen to. I'm always tired, even as a cling to the life my coffee brings me, or used to. The dried contacts in my eyes sting more every day, I wonder if blind people are insecure of their thighs, and stomach, and arms, and jawline, and nose.
It's getting bad again, really bad, you can see it on my playlist, in my eyes, on the hoodie I've been wearing for two weeks straight. I've checked out of the world like I've done so many times before, I guess this time lockdown has made it easier.
It's getting bad again. But at least I know it'll always get better again, then worse again, like a never-ending suffocating loop of ups and downs.
It's getting bad again, but I will get better.