A poem about my bulimia.
I wrote a poem about my bulimia a few years ago, I found this community and I thought I would share it with you.
It's pretty long so I'll put it behind a cut. This is still one of my favorite written pieces I've ever done.
It has a lot of triggering bulimia and possibly self injury imagery, so also keep that in mind, it might be triggering. Please be kind, I wrote this when I was extremely bitter and self-hating.
A vast ribboned sky, blood on coal,
Dawn streaking flushed colors into dark;
A slanted curtain blots out light - -
Jagging the image outside into bleak stark.
My eyes catch the light and sizzle life,
Two luminous trails like train tracks on my face;
Which is the real window - the one into soul,
Or the wall-bound window to a place?
What window shall I fall through,
Which fall is to a greater death?
To shatter like a mosaic in the road
Or to compose the mosaic of mental depth?
Emotional asphyxiation, years of denial,
Suppress and kill what's left of feelings,
Smile for the endless camera of other's eyes,
A puppet held by razor-edged strings.
Crouching in the dark, gasping for breath,
My red blood streaming from parted lips
Into the black eye of the toilet bowl,
My throat a shuddering flesh of tears and rips.
I can't breathe after I throw up,
My vision scrambles, my heart's stopping;
My hands shake when I flip on the light,
It is almost done; I feel my insides dropping.
It is like an amusement park ride,
You scream and it takes your breath away,
I vomit and my thoughts are drowned;
My silence through a raw mouth, acid decay.
Here is my altar, this is the body,
This is the blood, the meal, the bile I drew;
In the porcelain god, in swirls of unholy water,
My insides, my blood, my sacrificed slaughter.
And then the roar, the beast takes the offer,
I flush, the train tracks run deeper, harder,
A river washing through split cheeks
I: The saint, the hero, the self-made martyr.
My mind flushed blank, silence of dead soul,
My legs quivering as I rise up to stand,
I keep worshipping - meet my god of perfection!
I bend to meet the silent, persistent demand.
There is no sun out now, nothing of color;
The world is a curtain-width away -
And I can't pull my head out of the toilet! -
I deserve to die; to my dear god I pray.
I slam shut the window, glass splinters,
Beads of blood run as it shatters on me;
Bleed, sweet lamb, bleed yourself clean,
You have picked from a forbidden tree.
Squirm, worm, the window of reality closed,
A world of acid, blood, and hunger is your own;
Your soul's resting place, a pyre of wasted self,
An effigy of worship to a god that's a clown.
It's pretty long so I'll put it behind a cut. This is still one of my favorite written pieces I've ever done.
It has a lot of triggering bulimia and possibly self injury imagery, so also keep that in mind, it might be triggering. Please be kind, I wrote this when I was extremely bitter and self-hating.
A vast ribboned sky, blood on coal,
Dawn streaking flushed colors into dark;
A slanted curtain blots out light - -
Jagging the image outside into bleak stark.
My eyes catch the light and sizzle life,
Two luminous trails like train tracks on my face;
Which is the real window - the one into soul,
Or the wall-bound window to a place?
What window shall I fall through,
Which fall is to a greater death?
To shatter like a mosaic in the road
Or to compose the mosaic of mental depth?
Emotional asphyxiation, years of denial,
Suppress and kill what's left of feelings,
Smile for the endless camera of other's eyes,
A puppet held by razor-edged strings.
Crouching in the dark, gasping for breath,
My red blood streaming from parted lips
Into the black eye of the toilet bowl,
My throat a shuddering flesh of tears and rips.
I can't breathe after I throw up,
My vision scrambles, my heart's stopping;
My hands shake when I flip on the light,
It is almost done; I feel my insides dropping.
It is like an amusement park ride,
You scream and it takes your breath away,
I vomit and my thoughts are drowned;
My silence through a raw mouth, acid decay.
Here is my altar, this is the body,
This is the blood, the meal, the bile I drew;
In the porcelain god, in swirls of unholy water,
My insides, my blood, my sacrificed slaughter.
And then the roar, the beast takes the offer,
I flush, the train tracks run deeper, harder,
A river washing through split cheeks
I: The saint, the hero, the self-made martyr.
My mind flushed blank, silence of dead soul,
My legs quivering as I rise up to stand,
I keep worshipping - meet my god of perfection!
I bend to meet the silent, persistent demand.
There is no sun out now, nothing of color;
The world is a curtain-width away -
And I can't pull my head out of the toilet! -
I deserve to die; to my dear god I pray.
I slam shut the window, glass splinters,
Beads of blood run as it shatters on me;
Bleed, sweet lamb, bleed yourself clean,
You have picked from a forbidden tree.
Squirm, worm, the window of reality closed,
A world of acid, blood, and hunger is your own;
Your soul's resting place, a pyre of wasted self,
An effigy of worship to a god that's a clown.