there’s nothing beautiful about
bulimia.

there’s nothing beautiful about
throwing up.

bones hold me together but
no other body to speak of
exists between the spaces;

and what i believe holds me together
i know is what rips me apart
and fallen from good graces.

voices echo inside me screaming
with their empty promises that i’ll be
happy and beautiful and free;

while i know i am its slave and
what i believe saves my life
is what destroys me.

i claw at my body with
the truth that i’m never good enough
and hide and twist my soul into a lie;

and i believe what is keeping me alive
is false comfort and security and control
is really what will kill me till i die.

cruel and heartless, bulimia only stops for
death; and there’s nothing beautiful about dying.

there’s nothing beautiful about
bulimia.