Don't let this happen

wake up and think about it. try not to think about it. you crave nothing more than a full meal, but your mind tells your stomach what's best for it. and the people around you are oblivious. of course you want them to be. and you taste the food you're forcing yourself not to eat. now you could never tell anyone, it's not the basic type of issue. it's the kind that you know is a problem but you tell yourself its okay but it's not. and you're crying because you've loved your body your whole life and then one stupid dress is too small and you reconsider every morsel of anything that enters your digestive system. so you're crying because you don't have the time to do it right, you don't have time to go to the sweaty machine filled arena and take an hour out of your day to take away what you already have too much of. so instead you eat near nothing and work off more than what you consumed that day. and of course its undiagnosed so you tell yourself you don't have it. and it's not a disease. it's a lifestyle. until one day you eat with your family and you hide your little secret so you indulge in the full meal. hating the effect if every bite. hating how you can physically feel and see your stomach getting bigger as you fill every last square inch of your fist sized stomach. that night you're sitting in the bathroom staring at the porcelain bowl. should i ? should I not? is this right? is this wrong? don't do it you're fine. don't do it. you're beautiful. don't do it this is the first time in weeks you've felt completely satisfied and completely terrible at the same time. dont do it. dont do it. your finger is resting between your teeth. and you're sobbing because you hate all the healthy filling amazing scrumptious food in your stomach. because you'll get fat. because you'll jiggle. because the dress won't fit. because you've come so far in your self hatred. it has to be for something. there has to be a thin beautiful outcome from this hell you're living. so you glance back at the toilet and mentally scream at your hand to do it, to take it out, to put the unwanted fat in the the human waste reciprocal. and you shape your hand into a gun so that the first two fingers can reach back far enough to take it all away. and you pull the trigger and you bring your head closer to the edge of the bowl and your tears mix with the bile spewing from your mouth. and not 20 minutes ago you were laughing with your family and politely devouring the smooth creamy potatoes and the cuts-like-butter steak and the cheezy broccoli. and it has come to this. and you wipe the ugly off your face and cry because it's over and cry because it happened and cry because you hate that you want this. and you're reading this wondering why its written in second person. its because the author can't accept the fact that she's written this about herself.

This poem is about: 
Me

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