dysmorphia

if im being honest,
i miss being sick.
i wish i had stayed in the dirtiest part of me; in that well-known drab and mentally ill city

where there were no funny things
but there is plenty to write and depict.

i've believed that i have overcome my eating condition for three years now but I continue to discuss it in the present tense.

and for the first time, i feel ashamed rather than proud.
of all the things i've done to make myself happy and joyful.

when my mom casually mentions calories
my mental scoreboard once more becomes illuminated with numbers and how much carbs im going to consume again.

when i cut a ribbon to the desired size; i wore it as a band around my waist.

bathroom scales bring back memories and i page through pictures of my illness like a scrapbook.
the meals of smoke from cigarettes and red lipstick
how I used to put floss and whitening strips in my lunches

i bit my nails again last night while i was starving to death and im not allowed to eat until all of my nails are bleeding bearable to look at.

i don't want to elaborate further.
because what if you interpret this poetry as a how-to guide?
im not sure how to discuss the rabbit hole without unintentionally asking you to follow me down it

when healing involves work as well as yoga mats, exercises, drinks, and no carbohydrates
it serves as a reminder that eating ice cubes is not considered to constitute dinner.

excessive water consumption is unhealthy.
that your organs float like loofahs in your body, which transforms into a bathtub.

attempting to tune out the calorie counter in my head
like attempting to ignore the subtitles on television
and occasionally i just can't

recovery takes effort.
it's challenging to not want to die.

and each time you ask me, if i was full all i can hear is 'fat' but I'm making every effort not to.
however, i am unable to forget the calories in every food i consume.

wanting to return home is different from wanting to die.
and i'm still working to keep that in mind.