Poem 8-Skin Hunger

The starving skin
Lacing my bones

Oh yes, it is fed
But the food doesn’t nourish
It destroys

Hunger, an appetite
For something more
More, more, more

The cerebral need
For a missing puzzle piece
To complete

A map that shows
The way to the treasure
Of love, of company

Skin cells reach and grasp
At any possible match
And fall away

Every fall hurts
The bruised heart
All alone

The skin starves because
The puzzle piece
Is missing

What if
There’s no map to read
Or treasure to find

What if each attempt
Is futile and hopeless

Coating the white, hard,
Now hollow bones
Starving forever


Lost in Loneliness

There is a price to pay for isolation. It’s called the price of one’s sanity.

I spend my time focused on myself and others in equal balance, I won’t lie. I think about my own woes as much as I contemplate those of my friends, family and strangers.

I see a lot. I like to listen, to watch, to observe. I can blend into the background of many situations. I can transform into a confessional in the blink of an eye. A tolerant, prejudice-free advice giver who won’t get upset when you reject her advice. I try to be a backbone for my best friend. I try to be there for anyone who needs it.

And yet, no subtle hint of mine is voluminous enough to capture the attention of even those closest to me. For some reason, everyone thinks that my façade is real. I would think that someone would have seen the inching cracks and broken pieces. I say that I have no emotions and yet that could not be farther from the truth.

I feel so alone.

I’m always helping someone else and yet isolation has become my dearest companion. The dark of the night caresses my tears. The bowl of the toilet caresses my sorrows. The bloodied sink hides my imperfections. My retched mirrors spit all critiques and backhanded praises. My best friends are inanimate objects.

Am I insane?

I seek protection from the fragmenting and ruthless mind of mine and yet I’m too afraid to voice its true state. I’m afraid of everyone around, every minute of every day.

An accismus of note. I desire help, I long for it. And yet, I am so terribly frightened of the raw shell-shock of a straightforward revelation.

Tears warm my cheeks as I dream about my own confessional. A place to go where human ears can hear my internal hurricane and assist in calming it’s treacherous winds.

I exist in this limbo between terror and absolute desire. I’ll never move because I’m frozen still, stuck in between.

What is my next move?

I need therapy and yet I’d never be able to benefit from it.

I need a savour but what if I am supposed to be my own savour?

What if I’m not strong enough to save myself? What happens then?

Am I lost in this loneliness forever?

A Collection of Defeat

This collection is from a time in my life which I am afraid I am returning to, in a mysteriously, twisted and different sort of way. I just wanted to post it because I’ve hidden it away for so long. I feel as though the collection is complete and reflects my feelings at the time. Not that posting it makes a big difference but anyway…


A Collection of Defeat




I have these moments
When I so badly want someone to know
What I’m suffering

But I know I can’t

So I make up a beautiful lie
To hide a tragic truth


Today I asked her. Is she okay. She said “Yeah, why?”. I know she lied. She almost opened up a few minutes before. Talking about being depressed. I lost it. But I’ll see her soon. I want to help.

I’ve said before

I’ve said before
I’m all alone
And this world
I’m made of stone

My heart is ice
My eyes are shields
I’m isolated
In burning fields

Of my own thoughts
That ruin me
But soon this terror
Will set me free

I’ll drop the weight
My skin will heal
I’ll be perfect
I don’t need to ‘feel’


I guess I’m just ungrateful
I’ve got so much to love

My life is pretty perfect
School comes easy
And my drive is strong

I guess I’m just ungrateful
To have this mindset
To think that I’m ‘depressed’
Or anxious … Or anorexic

I guess I’m just ungrateful
For focusing on the bad words
The words that hate on fat
The words that praise thin

I guess I’m just ungrateful
Unappreciative and mean
For getting upset when my mother
Said she’s happy I’m losing weight

When she said last week I was fat

Maybe I’m just over sensitive
When she calls me “a little chubby”
When she’s proud that I don’t eat
When my insides drown in tea

Maybe I’m just over sensitive
She was just brought up that way
I don’t have to fall into that trap

Too bad

It’s already too late

Well then…

Paper Cuts

Scribble down a granite word
Erase it, let a tear splash down.
That tear probably says it better
Than worthless words right now.

Feel wet paper in your hands
Beneath your worn out fingers
Feel the sting as it slits skin
Bask in the pain that lingers

And now, your tears they gather
You’re drowning in doused sheets
Paper cuts across your stomach
A red waterfall to your feet

That paper turned to stainless steel
A dreadful life ago
But still the sheets, they hold those words
Your stomach bears their sorrow


When a word
A simple word
Becomes so important to you
So vital to your description


It’s the perfect word for me

My head is filled
With empty thoughts
My stomach is filled
With air


Like my eyes sometimes
When empathy is supposed
To be present

My heart when it
Realises how lonely
It really is

Inside my chest cavity
It’s true, it’s acidic
And corrosive


Like my scars
Filled with nothing but blood
Ha, turns out my stomach is


In where no food lies and
Out where scars form ragged plains


I guess that no one is really ever together. We all live in our own apartness.


I hope it burns

Furious red lines
Zigzagging across your skin
I hope it burns like hell

When you reach for something to eat
When your body cries ‘no’
I hope it stings and aches

When you feel lazy and
Don’t move
I hope the pain is numbed

By sweat and a hard heartbeat
By an empty stomach
Those lines are train tracks

For your doubts
Openings for the truth to seep in
Maybe then you can understand

Why you need to really, truly
Just be thin

Burn, razor, burn

Cut her, don’t let her forget
Her stupid mind is weak

The only thing that will remind her
Is the fire below her breasts
That is caused by you


My kind of aesthetic
Is lines
Beautiful, ordered, straight lines
Red lines
Beautiful, straight, red lines

Red lines of blood
Beautiful, straight, red, blood lines
On skin

Beautiful, straight, red, bloody lines
On skin

Almost Perfect

Beautiful, straight, red, bloody lines
On me


Perfection on me?
Such contrast.
It’s laughable.



I don’t feel empty
I thought I would feel better
But no

I want to vomit

I think I might
I feel gross

And fat
And full
A swine in a workout shirt
I tried to run
But my stomach was a weight
It was an anchor

I hate myself
My full stomach


I can vomit right now
I didn’t though
I don’t think I will

My paper punished me
I still feel sick
Nauseous even

But the pain takes
The taste of the pizza
The sugar, cake, brownies
The calories

Out of my mouth

Slowly I bleed
It all out

I wish my insides could
Be filled with blood

The metallic taste
On my tongue
My stomach full

But at least I would be



I hate myself
Why can’t I just hate food

Why am I a pig
Why do I do this
Why do I ruin myself

Tomorrow I will starve
If it’s the last thing I do

I can’t even eat breakfast
‘No’, I’ll just say ‘no’

It’s supposed to be my favourite word
But why does food make it so hard
For me to hate it

I hate myself
I wish I hated food instead.

Me 24/7


The pages know me best.

I have friends.
But they don’t know me like you do.

Pretty paper, you just allow me
To confide, to set myself free

No one cares enough
But you, you care.

Because you just reflect me.
I can trust you, pretty paper.

A human mind is too unstable

Pretty paper, you won’t fail me.
You will hold, protect, treasure my words.

You were created for them.
You want them, you waited for them.

Pretty paper, thank you.
Without you, I’d have to speak

My voice box fails me when I need it most
My mind seems to hate telling people about me

Oh pretty paper, thank you.


Fuck me.

I fucked up.
Food is a fucking problem
No, it’s my lack of self-control.
To fall and fail is detrimental
In this mind game
Of forgetting the food
And seeking the beauty

To eat is to lose
And to never be beautiful
I hate myself

Fuck me.

Why do I ruin my own fucking chances
It’s already summer
I look like a fucking ball
Of cheese and chocolate and no

I don’t want to fucking eat
Ever again in my life
And if tomorrow I do
My skin will not only be covered in blood

But the screams will be heard
From the other side
Of the country

And I will hurt
Every inch of me that
Enjoys the fucking fattening food
And it will bleed out of me

Fuck food. Fuck me.
Fuck all of this.


Little, tiny bubbles
Tickling my intestines
That’s what hunger feels like.

Hunger smells like
Buttered popcorn, melting chocolate
Fresh, green lettuce and tomato juice.

Hunger feels like
Warmth on the lips, on the tongue
In the chest, in the stomach, between the hips.

Hunger tastes like

But that taste is like

Empty means tiny, little bubbles.
Bubbles that dissolve fat
Not the buttered popcorn, melting chocolate or

Bubbles that dissolve love handles
Thick thighs, double chins, arm flab
Back fat, fat shoulders, belly fat and fat cheeks.

Hunger tastes like

Hunger feels like

A Pleasant Beginning

I’ve come to realise the stark contrast between my daily thought processes and my writing. I come here only to seek refuge from the hold that I’m forced to hide in whenever I feel overwhelmingly negative feelings.

And yet I’ve come to realise that it’s not only negative feelings that I am forced to shade. There is this all-consuming notion or idea in my head that is constantly telling me that the world, in it’s broken, corrupt horror, is a beautifully wonderful and happy place.

I can’t seem to shake the feeling that within every conniving, convoluted human being is this strain of goodness, of love. While we all have the capacity for evil, it takes only a little bit of watching and listening to discover that ever-present sliver of righteousness and virtue.

There are so many ways to perceive intention and action  but we all create our own. If you believe that every action is performed with selfish prerogatives then perhaps the belief is only applicable to your own intentions. Perspective is the holy grail of the truth because there may be no such thing as the truth.

To write happily is simply more difficult because the emotion is not usually one you wish  to express intricately and in detail. It’s just this overwhelming belief and faith that everything will be perfect and that life, in and of itself, does not need to be.

However strongly the loneliness, sadness and fear may plague me, there are so many counter feelings that strengthen my perspective of life and that allow me to create a beautifully rose-tinted vision of my existence.

And so my only writing goal for this coming year is that my expression changes and that I become more willing and able to express the joys and perceptions that shape my life to a much greater extent than my drearily melancholy bursts of expression.

It’s back

The little voice is back.

Yesterday it targetted my mouth.
Keeping it closed.
Regretting every object that had the chance to exist within it.

It used my mouth to lie.
About my hunger.
It made my stomach grumble and cry for something, anything.

Today it targetted my throat.
Two fingers down the oesaphagus.
Circles, drawing tiny circles at the base of it.

And then the stomach spasms. Screams.
And the insides are scraped out.
With a polished spatula.

And suddenly whirls of strawberries and vegan chocolate spread
Swirl within the lavender water of the toilet bowl.
And tears, tears they are warm but not falling.

The voice told me stand, to flush.
She told me to wash my hands and carry on.
Like nothing happened.

No one asked me about anything.
It seems as though they don’t notice me.
She’s the only one that does.

But she’s warning me about eating so much.
If I do it again, everything comes out.
My gut will be squeezed until it’s empty.

And yearning for more

Last time, it was not as easy as this time
And next time it will be easier.
Beware, food’s going to kill you, love.

That voice is going to kill you. 


It’s fucking terrifying. 

How do people do it so easily? How do people tell others how they’re feeling, their inner emotions, their hearts desires, their entire soul? Allow their bare, naked truth to strut about the mind of a stranger? Allow it tobbe exposed, vulnerable to rejection and hurt? How do you give up something like that? How do you trust someone to look after it?

I’m so afraid and I can finally admit it. I am scared, horrified, petrified, fucking frantic. 

I am so afraid to scrape out the inner makings of my being, the drive for my actions, the inner thoughts and naughty whispers, the dreadful ideas and absurd  actions. The intensity of my feelings is not something that I can express willfully. 

There is just so much inside of me that, if I ever were to express it, I would need hours to express one moment of fleeting emotion. My emotions are cathartic, intense and volumous. Heavy, kilometre deep emotions are held, contained by mere seconds in time. And yet, I’m called emotionless, robotic, neutral an unfeeling by many people.

But that’s because each emotion is so brutal that it’s immense nature is suppressed by my fear of unfavourable reaction or dismissal.  
I’m afraid of rejection. Of people not caring. Of being seen as dramatic. 

I’m so fucking afraid. I shiver at night and cry myself to sleep because everything inside of me wants to break free. 

But it’s impossible. It’s impossible to allow my feelings to run free in the world, so devoid of empathy. 

Since about the age of 10, I thought that my deepest fear was being alone. But my deepest fear is also being misunderstood leading to the ultimatum of being alone forever. Being alone because I can’t share myself with anyone. Because I contain my heavy emotions. I’m afraid of carrying that burden alone forever.

I’m so afraid of isolation. 


Lack of empathy. 

I’m afraid of a world where I say that I actually feel… and nobody cares.