volume iii.
starve your darlings
~
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to eating disorders ⚠
~
Been counting
calories like sunflower petals:
i love me /
i love me not /
i love me /
i love me not/
i love me /
i love me not.
I bite my tongue,
survive on the taste
of my own blood
a l o n e.
But
the mere thought of the
Potato Chips
Brownie Bites
Cheese wiz
in the kitchen
sends the porcelain screamin'
Self destruct in
3..
2...
Purge...
Estranged dollops of
regurgitated Big Mac
blaze their way
up my esophagus
and down my chin
in syrupy filaments of vomit.
the vulgar
call it the Two Finger Diet.
Mental Health Professionals
call it Bulimia.
But I don't have an
eating disorder;
my eating is just disordered
a counsellor once told me.
See, my behaviour
has never been acute enough
for any formal diagnosis.
I have only ever dabbled.
Society's got to pick and choose,
decide who's worth the trouble
and who isn't
(and dabblers don't make the cut.)
Empty stomachs have
become the new
f̶a̶d̶
epidemic.
Regardless,
perception's been infected
mind, body
subjected
to the suspected
ugliness of my being.
The ugliest part,
I think,
is my chin.
Double stuffed
like an oreo.
They say
the larger someone is
all the more of them
to love.
But right now,
I wish there was less
of me to hate.
And this hatred has made itself
relevant
in every epoch of my life.
A montage of memory
capers across weeping multitudes
of self-deprecation,
tangle themselves
amongst my arteries,
impenetrable as
Quality Street Toffee.
Every heartbeat
a repetition of
pain
pain
pain--
the means through which
beauty
is realized.
Starve away your ugliness.
{Words of Wisdom From Ana}
1. A handful of crackers
2. Chocolate milk
3. Poetry
{The only things I have eaten today}
I can't be more than
eight years old
when I weigh myself
for the first time
at a relative's house.
Her voice—
crowned in posh condescension—
cracks against my self-esteem
like lightning against a willow.
"Suck in that tummy,
miss jade.”
(and the bough
my childhood rests upon
shatters.)
In junior high gym class,
we would sort ourselves into pairs,
each partner comically straight-backed
against the height chart taped onto the wall
while the other determined
the measurement.
Next,
we were to weigh ourselves.
But this, we did alone,
double-checking to
ensure no one else was within
a readable distance of the scale.
The lbs
spin in front
of my apprehensive gaze
like the numbers
on a slot machine.
Beauty is a gamble,
you know.
And these scales--
they're rigged, you know.
Because very rarely
do you like what you see;
very rarely
do you hit the jackpot.
Especially in gym class.
After we'd measured our heights
and weighted ourselves,
we were told to
individually calculate our
BMI's
(Body Mass Indexes).
Over three years,
my results were
always the same:
HRNI
(High-Risk Needs Improvement).
Of course--
of course--
this was something
we were marked on.
So if you weren't happy
with the mark you received,
you had two options:
change your height
or change your weight.
We were graded on
our bodies.
Our fucking bodies.
Despite the fact
that the school preached to us
the importance of maintaining
a healthy body image,
despite the fact that,
in our pre-teen glory,
all we cared about
was the way we looked,
How cruelly ironic.
Since the seventh grade,
I had consistently
maintained an A average
in the majority of my classes.
Perhaps,
in some way,
my intentions were to
aim for sublime, academic achievement
so the numbers on my report card
would compensate for
the numbers that loomed
upon the analog screen of the scale.
Now,
I realize that
it made no difference--
no amount of studying
will make you thin.
I have always had an
incurable obsession with numbers.
Grades must always exceed 89%.
Instagram posts must always exceed 99 likes.
But I lowball the value on the scale--
weight must not exceed ______
Pardon the game of fill-in-the-blanks.
But did you really think I'd let you figure it out?
I am cast as an Amazonian
in my highschool’s production
Of Peter Pan.
When the costumes arrive,
I try on a corset.
Even without a bra on
stomach sucked in until it hurts
my friend desperately coercing
the leather and lace into submission,
it still does not fit.
One day,
I go shopping
during my break
at work.
In the change room,
I try on two dresses,
both plaid palettes
of lilac and green.
I always try the
bigger size on first.
See,
if you try on the
bigger size first,
you'll never realize
what you’re missing—
or, more precisely,
the extra pounds you wish
you could miss.
But if you try on the
smaller size first
and it’s too tight--
and it is always too tight,
the teeth of the zipper
gnawing at my spine
like a chicken bone
that's been stripped of its meat--
it is terribly demeaning
to resort to the larger size.
It is demeaning to
always feel less than
simply because you have
too much of.
The things I wish
I could wear
but can’t because
none of them fit anymore:
- Blue jeans with embroidered roses on the pant leg
- Pastel, denim shorts
- A Nightmare Before Christmas Sweater dress from Disneyland
- The leather waist cincher whose purpose is to conceal
*Beauty
They say
staring at your
naked
reflection in the mirror
promotes bodily love.
I try it.
Am flattered
by the way
nudity compliments
my figure.
No stubborn zippers
refusing to grind,
no fabric that adheres
to my stomach in an unflatteringly,
no muffin tops that leave
noticeable trails of crumbs
wherever I may go,
even after my most tedious
attempts to cloak my form
in baggy sweatshirts
and pants with added elasticity.
no fat.
no ugly.
Maybe even something close to
beautiful.
I can’t tell if I just
naturally have big tits
or if my tits are big because
I’m overweight.
Regardless,
I wear deep-cut dresses to school
paired with neon pushup bras
whose vibrantly coloured straps
radiate through the fabric
as if daring them to stare.
This is the only
part of my body
whose largeness
is acceptable
in the eyes of man.
You can starve yourself
as much as you want, darling–
he still won’t love you.
January 1st, 2019.
I wake up that morning,
determined to turn
over a new leaf
(I have been wilting
for far too long).
My family and I
visit my grandma's
for breakfast.
I walk the 15 minutes
from my house to hers
(and then back again)
as part of my
daily physical activity intake.
Sitting at the dining room table,
my tastebuds undulate
at the sight of the bacon
sizzled to crisp perfection
and lathered in grease.
I am asked if I would like some.
I promptly refuse.
Instead, I have two eggs.
Did you know an egg
contains approximately
70 calories?
Two--
140 calories.
I eat them with hot sauce.
Did you know hot sauce
has zero calories?
It's a cheat
(but not really
a cheat)--
a paroxysm of flavour
and for zero calories?
Fuck yeah.
This works in favour
of my New Years Resolution:
lose weight,
to be accomplished through
a-thousand-calorie-a-day-diet
and a vigorous workout routine.
The first few days
are a success.
But then--
Miss Vickie's Salt and Vinegar Miss Vickie's Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream Pistachio Oreos Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies Honey Mustard Pretzels Caramilk Chubby Soda Popcorn with Dill Pickle Seasoning M & M's on the side Boursin on Melba Toast Cream Cheese on Melba Toast Butter on Regular Toast Doritos Pringles Kraft Dinner--
But then
I slip.
But then
I devour.
Perhaps
if I brush my teeth
right after,
exorcizing the flavour of
binge
from my tongue,
it will be as though
I never ate anything
in the first place.
There is no need to fret,
my precious glutton;
let me show you a little trick of mine.
-Mia
“There is something you must remember
my dear Mia,”
said Ana.
“While you might have your
own way of exerting power over her–
your own way of slipping
your fingers down her throat–
you will always be my bitch.
You would not exist
if it weren’t for me.”
“Eat!”
screamed her stomach.
“You mustn’t,”
declared her Insecurity.
I wince
as the pangs of hunger
blaze in my belly.
But–no.
Perhaps I am not so hungry,
after all.
Perhaps I am just bored.
Yes, I am just bored.
I am not hungry--
I am just bored.
I am not hungry--
I am just bored.
I am not hungry--
I am just bored.
I am not hungry…
Right?
Each day
I wake up with
the intention
of not eating,
and each day
I fail.
When I tell my friends
“I feel so fat,”
They say things like
“That doesn’t make you unattractive, though.”
and
“You don’t have to be skinny to be beautiful.”
I wait for them to tell me
that I’m wrong.
It is their agreeability
breaks my heart.
Sally shares a Pizza with her friend
and cuts it up into eighths.
If Sally’s friend eats 1/2
of the Pizza and
Sally eats the rest,
how many slices
of Pizza does Sally eat?
{Trick question; Sally is not hungry}
It's the worst at night
when I try to sleep.
When I can't sleep
because my waist keeps
escaping its confines.
Sometimes my fingers
accidentally graze
the protruding flesh,
and I wrench them away abruptly
as if they've made contact
with something infernal.
I pull up my Spanx
in an attempt to
cinch the excess flab.
A prayer dashes across
my gluttonous tongue.
To the god I know does not exist:
please, take away this body.
If only I were as thin
as the paper
you hold between
your fingertips.
As light as poetry--
1655 words to a page,
yet so ethereally weightless.
I
wish
I
was
a
poem.
Image Source:
Ribs line art gif (n.d.). [image] Available at: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/574349758715315035/?lp=true[Accessed 26 Feb 2020].
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