deepundergroundpoetry.com
Loss
I prayed to jesus every Sunday, plucked away every stray eyelash and sent it to the wind; all for the hopes to become beautiful and thin. And as my twelve year old self spent her years carving into her skin, and slipping her fingers down into the hearth of her throat, I wish I could hold her, and love her the way she should've been.
I am much older now, and maybe the years have aged me, aged my mind in ways I never thought it could, and when I think of twelve year old me, alone in my room, Speaking to older men who would never love her, finding solace in between the lips of a razor, or finding it on the inside of a restroom, the roaring shower to drown out the noise of my forced dry heaving, All I want to do is cry, and feel the loss that was my innocence. I wish I could've told her how much better things could be, that all she needed to do was hold on for the both of us.
I went to the doctor, yesterday; and I've lost twelve pounds; and that might not mean anything to anyone here, but to me it is the taste of freedom, and contentment. Because I lost it without forcing whatever herbal bullshit skinny tea I found at Walmart, down into the wells of my throat. I lost it without meticulously counting every calorie, every piece of shredded food that would touch the inside of my mouth, every piece of ice I swallowed. I lost it without slipping my fingers down my throat, without ever forcing so much water into my stomach that I threw everything all up.
I did it, on my own, Without ever having to hurt myself in the first place. Maybe this is what freedom tastes like, and Maybe it's a fluke, and i'll gain some of it back, but for the first time in what seems like eternity, I don't give a fuck.
I am much older now, and maybe the years have aged me, aged my mind in ways I never thought it could, and when I think of twelve year old me, alone in my room, Speaking to older men who would never love her, finding solace in between the lips of a razor, or finding it on the inside of a restroom, the roaring shower to drown out the noise of my forced dry heaving, All I want to do is cry, and feel the loss that was my innocence. I wish I could've told her how much better things could be, that all she needed to do was hold on for the both of us.
I went to the doctor, yesterday; and I've lost twelve pounds; and that might not mean anything to anyone here, but to me it is the taste of freedom, and contentment. Because I lost it without forcing whatever herbal bullshit skinny tea I found at Walmart, down into the wells of my throat. I lost it without meticulously counting every calorie, every piece of shredded food that would touch the inside of my mouth, every piece of ice I swallowed. I lost it without slipping my fingers down my throat, without ever forcing so much water into my stomach that I threw everything all up.
I did it, on my own, Without ever having to hurt myself in the first place. Maybe this is what freedom tastes like, and Maybe it's a fluke, and i'll gain some of it back, but for the first time in what seems like eternity, I don't give a fuck.
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