Normally I post my poetry without any commentary and just let the words speak for themselves. But this one I feel deserves a little extra attention.

I suffered from bulimia and anorexia from the ages of 15 to 21. Because I just didn’t have the willpower to outright starve myself for long periods of time, I always considered myself a failed anorexic. Like being bulimic was the best I could do. Yes, it’s a warped way of thinking, but eating disorders work wonders on one’s mindset.

So here I sit with the poem I wrote at the tail end of my struggle (which only means I stopped the behaviors because the mindset with forever be skewed) for a college English class with a recent copy of the Hip Mama zine sitting on my desk. There’s an upcoming deadline for submissions dealing with body topics, and I’m seriously thinking of sending “zombie” in for consideration. The topic is one I feel strongly about, obviously, so I may write a few more pieces and send them along as well, but for now I’m concentrating on this little piece of myself.

Take a moment. Read. Then comment. What do you think?

Voices raised fingers pointed

tears

thoughts racing guilt swelling

eat

something anything

chew

swallow

repeat

words thrown overhead

salt in wounds

pepper in soul

let them yell
escape

zombie-like

walk downstairs

enter bathroom

lock

get on knees

lift the lid

open mouth

despair

insert finger

gag

release

stand up wash hands

glance at reflection

mascara streaks

flush

wash

mesmerized

anxieties

fears

turmoil

swirl

sweet nothingness

lock up self

unlock door

voices raised

fingers pointed

go through motions

again

Raindrops fall as wet wind dances across my cheeks.

Flowers dance beneath the sunshine

before the

stars

moon and

night clouds lay a blanket across my world.

Seasons of my life pass quickly like

sand between my fingers.

**from Juicy Journaling with SARK

My eyes do not see what the world sees when they look into a  mirror.

They see more; more than the soft curves and pendulous breasts,

they see a timid soul hiding from herself. Afraid to shed the armor of flab that protects her

because it ensures soft landings.

My eyes do not see what the world sees when they look into a mirror.

They see less;

Less than the round of my face and the folds of my belly.

They only see the woman inside who is patiently waiting, hoping, wondering when she will be free