My tryst with Anorexia

I was not used to

being called beautiful,

but that one time,

that one time made me greedy;

I was laughing at a joke with my friend

When this I rarely talked to walks to me and says,

“You’re beautiful.”

I was 11;

But the cracked mirror

“There’s nothing of worth there.

Why would she appreciate your cheeks so plump,

The fat lingering around your waist?”

I am 15;

Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw

A girl with eyes so sad

And a body so fat.

Wearing a big sweater and a book in hand,

Candle light and sipping tea,

is how I always imagine myself.

I lock myself in the bathroom,

The mirror, it’s still cracked;

I examine every minute detail of my face,

My mother’s call for dinner deftly ignored,

I curl up in my bed and fall into a restless sleep;

I am 17;

I eat after a day of not eating

Just a slice of bread,

Purge! Purge! Purge!

Every bone in my body tells me to purge;

I do not sleep that night, I cannot;

The day, I spend an hour in front of the mirror,

It’s new, it shines,

I go through the razor sharp angles on my face,

I apply concealer on my wrists.

Last night, I went the hard way.

I’ve already worn an oversized sweater,

Just in case.

Lunch, need I say I skip,

The number on the scale is still too large.

I run my hand over my torso,

I’m having a bad day

Or a fat day as I call it;

‘Skip dinner’, I remind myself,

Chin up, I fake a smile;

I am 19;

The sweater’s cozy, I’m still cold,

And books,

I’ve long said goodbye to reading;

My eyes won’t focus and my head’s too fuzzy;

Candles are just another way to self harm

And the tea tastes bitter too;

I’m never getting any closer to beauty,

I’ll never

Get any closer;

The mirror sways slightly on the wall,

I steady it with my hand.

My face is scary, still plump in faces,

Fat is all I see, it needs to go;

I search for the pill

And gulp it down with water;

I am 23;

I swear I’m not human,

How am I still alive?

Maybe it’s a superpower I’ve acquired,

Maybe I’m a tiger with silver stripes and red too

Appearing everyday.

But no,

This, this has to stop!

I’m not a superhero, I’m too weak for that,

Neither am I a tiger;

It’s just the mirror which tells me so

Or is it my eyes?

I am 25;

I write my first poem,

It goes something like this,

“I am a girl made up of sweatshirts and diet pills,

I am a girl who wants to die and soon I will.”

My mother calls for dinner,

It isn’t my last poem;