Hush

Hush

Her name in his mouth

A flowing melody of syllables
A whisper
Hush

Nonsensical flow
Stand back, finger on your lips
Apart from it all
Hush

Which that of fell
Over a noisy crowd
Packed into a hot auditorium
Stage blinded by shadow
Silence
Hush

In your ears, muffled
A haze over the heads
Flies, clouds in your eyes
Iridescent wings beating
Like heart on bone
A whistle through the gap in your teeth
A breath
Hush

Suspended, without a beginning
Ever a prologue
Lips sewn shut, needle and
Thread around your tongue
Dental floss
A biting sting, a dangling string
Hush

Trailing conversation
Three periods, dots
Ink splatters were accidents

Miscarriage, hurricane, murder

Sirens

The sirens they don’t hear
Shivering underwater
Bubbles, the air you’ll never receive
Off the bridge they plummet
Hush

They’re dead, they’re cold and dead
Lifeless, numb, not moving
They can’t move
Can’t talk, can’t see
Can’t hear the sirens
Coming to save them
You can’t save the dead
Hush

They drowned
Libretto no more
Closed eyelids sealed shut
By death’s breath
Icy wisps of souls
Leaking from their mouths
Swirling tendrils and frosty veins
Moth dust, pixie dust, bone dust
Grazing hipbones, collarbones bare
Dead, the dead walk
They whisper
Hush

The dead kiss to the music of the ambulance
Sleeping underwater
Kissing underwater
Silent kisses, kisses that wrap around your eyes
Burn into your mind
The dead kiss to the sirens
That won’t save them
Underwater grave
Hush.
_____________________________________________________
I wrote this in Physical Science. It started off as an envy thing but by the third line I had lost control of what I wanted to say and it spun away from me, like that dream from last night, the one you can't remember. I ripped the looseleaf to shreds then when I got home I taped it back together and typed it up.

A Waste of Space

He spent half the night trying to convince me I'm beautiful.
I don't think I'll ever believe him.

I love him, really. He's sweet, a really good guy. He knows me better than my best friends. He has this sixth sense when it comes to predicting my moods, and acts accordingly. He's always trying to make me happy, always trying to make me feel better. Always is there for me. He knows about the cutting, or at least that I've done it. Thinks I've stopped for good.

He doesn't know about ana. And I'm not going to tell him, ever. How could I? It's been bubbling under the surface of my skin for a year, all the angst and self-loathing building up until I began the cycle of starving, binging, purging.

He would hate me. Or at least lose all respect for me. How can he love someone who hates themselves? How can he hold someone who can't keep themselves in one piece?

_______________________________________________________________________
I suck at fasting. I was great until 6th period, when my friend brought out two bags of Cheez-Its. She knew I hadn't eaten all day. I wasn't strong enough to resist. And by the time I got home, I was broken.

1 bag of White Cheddar Cheez-Its: 210
1 green Apple-70
1 yogurt with granola-190
Today's Total: 470
Ugh. It makes me wanna barf. Disgusting. Fucking disgusting.
My weight hasn't increased, but it hasn't dropped either. It's hovering, doing circles around leftover un-binged Thanksgiving leftovers. Puke. Puke. Puke. Puke. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.
I'm such a pathetic waste of space. I don't deserve him.

Confessions of a Cutter

I cut again.
I didn't mean too  I've been clean since March. The blade stayed tucked away in the drawer for months and months, spring and summer and fall. It whispered to me, husky breaths, dark calls. I picked it up for the first time last night, trailing it along my arms. I know better than to cut there now, it's too obvious. I still have the scars from a really bad fit last year, ten months ago.  Mom knows where to check.
This morning, in the shower. Cold. Shivering. Goosebumps. I made six tiny incisions, drawing only tiny beads of blood along my hipbones. The cuts were hardly an inch long. An angry red patch now, hidden by the band of my underwear.

My dad bought bagels. I love bagels, and he knows it.
I've heard bagels are worse than doughnuts.
Still I have to resist the urge to run downstairs and just stuff five of them in my mouth at once, just eat without caring.
No. I tie myself down with ropes and chains, bound to this blog. Bound to you, skinny girls, and the promise that I won't eat. I won't eat. It's a chant. Say it.

Wintergirls

"Dead girl walking," the boys say in the hall.
"Tell us your secret," the girls whisper, one toilet to another.
I am that girl.
I am the space between my thighs, daylight shining through.
I am the library aide who hides in Fantasy.
I am the circus freak encased in beeswax.
I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelin frame.

--Laurie Halse Anderson, Wintergirls.

Wintergirls is amazing.
Read it. Now.
It's about an anorexic girl whose bullimic friend committed suicide and now she's left to deal with the aftermath.
It's triggering, it's thinspo. It's great. One day I'm going to write something like this.

Thinspo #1 Keira Knightly

Gobble Gobble

Yeah, we all know what tomorrow is.
I'll be too ashamed and disgusted with myself to even log into Tumblr and stare at all those pretty, bone-thin, bug-eyed girls I want to look like. Ugh. This is the worst holiday ever. It's so fucking stupid. I....I can't even. Just ugh.

Tomorrow morning I'm gonna drag myself outta bed and run for at least a half an hour. I'm pretty sure the gym is closed so I'll just jog around the block in the cold until my bones are creaking and my fingers are numb. Then I'll do pilates until dinner.
Dinner.
Oh god.
The dreaded word. How will I survive?
Purging, I tell you. Embrace mia tomorrow, girls, you'll need her. Stick your heads in the toilet and have at it.

Good luck. Stay strong, I know it's gonna be hard for all of us. I'll post some thinspo to help. <3

What Is Anorexia?

So today my friend asked me, "What's anorexia?"
And I just looked at her.
And looked some more.
"What?" she asked, eyes wide.
I couldn't tell at first if she had suspected something--but if she had, she would've had to do some research or at least known something about the disorder. But she didn't. She legit didn't know. She told me about how for her creative writing project she wanted one of her characters to have anorexia. But first she had to know what it was. She honestly had no idea how relevant her question was to me.
So I explained it, put reason where there was none, described the writhing, chaotic mess of my own self-loathing in neat, tidy words. Little boxes overflowing with long vocabulary. I kept it as seperate from myself as I could, rearranging my features into a mask of passivity. I was detached as I recited what could have been a dictionary definition. She nodded, jotted some notes, and thanked me.
And that was all.
In a weird way, it felt like I'd confessed--when I obviously hadn't.
She doesn't know. She doesn't know anything at all.
Clueless. Ignorant. Part of it hurts, the other part laughs with bursts of superiority.
She doesn't know anything.