disordered

there are monsters sewn inside my skin, a paperthin nest for them to hatch and eat away my insides.  i let them devour me to the core, in gaping mouthfuls, sharp teeth digging away my flesh, pound by pound, spitting out just another wasted skeleton of a girl.  they have removed my shrieking, hungry brain and fogged it with a slurry of dizziness and shaking fingers and an ache that perpetuates from my bones, exhaustion no sleep can sate.  they are in my bloodstream, swimming through my dead girl veins, cutting trails through my slippery organs, dragging my slowed heart to a stuttering halt.  they have become

me.

noisy voices mutter, a constant babble of hate words and thoughts of not good enough, not perfect enough, not beautiful enough. never enough. a sharp press of blade to bone sends them skittering away, sly and wary insects that only crawl back to bite down no matter how much i cut and bleed and scab and cut and bleed and scab, over and over, scar after scar, but it never

stops.

this body weighs both far too much, and never enough.  this body will restrict until it is a glittering pile of bones.  this body is too hazy to acknowledge the pleas for health, recovery, sanity.  the demons sing their throaty anthem, mustnoteatmustnoteatmustnoteat.  if you eat, you are punished with a merry-go-round of exercise, leaving your sorry thighs shaking and eyes stinging with sweat and tears.  purge every ounce of food to grace your whimpering stomach.  fill what is empty and empty what is full until there is blood fresh on your fingers and sores splitting the seams of your throat until you might just

break.

(if you are strong enough, there are pills in the cabinet, a knife sleeping beneath your futon.  but even then, you will be weak.  you can never starve enough, eat enough, purge enough, bleed enough.  the pain is never enough.  you are a carousel of mental illness with no exit to this carnival ride.  the more hurt you feel, the merrier the voices scream, jubilee in your destruction.  you pull death towards your matchstick arms for one last embrace, holding it between your palms as you would a lover.  you have become your disease.  you are nothing) i am





nothing