reflections of the past two days

day six: do you binge? if so, explain why you think you do.

do i breathe? yes, i binge, and after i always feel dirty, horrid, ugly, fat. sometimes a binge can consist of simply eating a tiny meal that wasn't alloted for in my daily calories, or it could consist of me inhaling everything in sight--it doesn't matter. a binge is a binge, and binges are bad.
however, the feelings only last until i drop another pound, when i realize, while binges are bad, they can be erased if you just get back on track and stick to it.

explain... sometimes, i feel binges are inevitable, if you've spent your whole life putting emotional meanings on food. to comfort you, to calm you down, to relieve boredom, etc. it's almost like quitting smoking--those feelings are still there, and when you hit a weak moment, somehow you find yourself with food in your hand. perhaps eventually the binges can be overcome, but it takes a strong will and a conscious mind.


day seven: do your parents know you're trying to lose weight? do they care?

yes, my mom knows i'm trying to lose weight. in that sort of passing way, where she knows i'm very conscious of what i eat, but she tends to be around for my binges, so she believes i'm not trying to lose it in a 'dangerous' way. which is the one reason i'm /ever/ grateful for a mini-binge sometimes. the last thing i need is someone nagging me about what to eat and when--i'm not seven years old.


oh, and i wrote a poem based on my last blog entry--please enjoy. (:

beauty's breakdown 
i am caught in a web
of my own weaving
that tells me what i am worth:
absolutely nothing,
unless i am loved.

the day you walked away,
i looked in the mirror
and saw a monster,
someone unworthy
of someone like you

my hair is a hazy cloud
and my eyes are dull.
my lips are chapped,
and yet i'm still biting them.
my breasts leap forward,
center of attention,
and my thighs are pale white,
and still too large

there is simply too much
for a girl like me--
someone who simply wishes
to disappear

this is the problem with love:
falling in love is masochistic-
you will be broken in the end.

my left wrist bears new scars,
and my right hand flicks a cigarette.
i have started down my old paths
laden with self-destruction
simply because there is nobody left to care.

i'm beyond influence now,
for i do as i please.
what i please is to starve
until my ribcage protrudes,
and i can fondle
the points of sharp hipbones.
what i please is to smoke
until my chest aches
and i wake choking on nicotine.

i cannot be with you now,
for i am no longer perfect,
for i have ceased to try.
my heart is closed off,
and you will not enter.

someday you will come around,
and you will open your eyes and see me,
an ugly, broken shell
of the girl you once loved.

yet somehow i pray,
you will not see ugliness,
but instead, see beauty in my breakdown.

there is poetry written between my fingers
and my eyes trace portraits on the ceiling
i am an artist tonight:
painting my own destruction