Bulimia nervosa,

 Or so they call it. I wouldn’t say I was too nervous about it;

Actually I was quite disgusted both physically and mentally.

 It’s a disorder but I don’t think I have a disorder.

I’m normal!   I know I’m normal!   I’m perfect!

I have the perfect black bags under my eyes.

I have the perfect scars on my back from my spine sticking out too much.

I have the perfect pale skin.

I’m just perfect in every which way

Just the way everyone around me has molded me.

 And I’m happy or at least I think I am. I mean my mom’s happy when she calls me "fat". So I have to be happy as well. Right!?!

 I still put on a smile even when it hurts. My mom always tells me "being beautiful is painful". I must be drop dead gorgeous because I’m dying on the inside.

But I did this for them. For her.  For myself.  I’m healthy.

I traded my whole life in for these beautiful empty white hospital walls.

I traded my soft warm bed for this pathetic excuse of a hospital bed.

But I did this for the love and acceptance I’ve longed for from everyone around me.

So why is everyone looking at me with those sad eyes?

Guide that inspired this poem: 



So good

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