Your eating disorder (she) is a million miles of lies. Twisting every number into letters creating words holding as much ground as the Bible holds for some people: 120 is fat.
She pulls your hair back from toilet water and vomit–
Offering no solutions as strands fall in clumps down the shower drain.
She offers pride every time you slip on an extra small shirt or slide into size zero jeans–
As she whispers, don’t eat. No one will love you if you don’t fit in these clothes.
She takes the steering wheel when you’re alone and says, go to sleep, I’ll drive–
But doesn’t tell you what she means is; off a cliff.
She offers coffee every morning in your favorite mug–
The start of tricks she plays all day; enjoy this hunger suppressant.
She is dreams of happiness and success and love–
A pretty cover for depression, desperation, and isolation.
Your eating disorder is a million miles of pain. You cannot run long enough or hard enough or fast enough to get away from it.
She is mental and physical distress. Your biology fights against her but your brain can’t live without her.
She facilitated the death of your spirit. And joy, and wanderlust, and…
All the pieces of you that were worth anything.
Hate her, with everything you have left, so you can bring your soul out of its grave.