Day passes day, day converts into a week.
Yet I still have this feeling, of pure and utter bleak.
I can't stand myself, to see me being sick.
The revulsion surrounding me, coming in thick.
I don't deserve to eat, to feel the satisfaction of being full.
I am much to disgusting to be seen or allowed to feel warmth inside.
Somehow I can't imagine how I must look to people.
All I see in the mirror is an offensive image of what is assumed to be me.
Voices in my head are telling me to be thin.
That I don't need to eat, and this dangerous cycle begins.
That I need to starve myself to look and be perfect.
Every bit of food that my body must reject.
I can barely even swallow, even if I wanted to.
Because this pain I must bring out, the state that I pursue.
The people that surround me tell me that I'm fat.
That my body is getting so disgusting, one they can't even look at.
So I pretend to make my way, empty stomach all the time.
Food as an enemy, and I take it in as a crime.
Half the day goes by, not a single taste goes past my lips.
This is a battle that I must accept my pip. -
