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,
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,
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,
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
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;