My mind is at war with my shell,
Where whispers of insecurity
Become screams of self-hate.
Wrapped tightly inside lies my demon,
Its claws scratching down my throat,
Nourishing me with lies and fear.
Is this murderous, twisted form
Why I see its choice of residency
Through a mirror of dysmorphia?
I can’t give it all the credit though,
I chose to listen, I chose to surrender,
I chose to swallow its skeleton fingers.
I decided to live along-side it,
Not telling truths or eating food,
But withholding, controlling.
I thought the voices
Would get quieter
As my shell shrinks,
Because there is less
For the parasite to take.
Instead as my frame fades
The demon finds strength,
Becoming more than words,
Taking charge of my identity.
It manipulates words as swords,
Using violence to cut away
Any remaining sanity.
Like a vine creeping up a tree,
Nervosa wraps its arms around me.
Now it is impossible to separate
The vine from the tree,
The darkness from me.
This disease is mental,
A ravaging sickness,
That manifests itself as
Skin wrapped bones, so others see it.
They see my shrinking fame,
And their eyes dart away,
Not wanting to face the horrors
Of a dying girl.
Believe me, I don’t want to die.
I love life, my friends, my family,
They mean the world to me.
Yet I can’t seem to like myself
Enough to do what I need,
To breathe in the reality
About the brink I’m reaching.
If I’m honest, and nowadays it’s hard to be,
I’m not okay.
I still grasp for the reigns,
Setting a strict code to limit,
To choke myself into satisfaction.
But that bar keeps getting lower and lower
Until it hits the floor,
Where my casket will
Hold what’s left of me.
Don’t be fooled though,
Even if my weight is back,
I’m still not “all-right”.
I want to put down the fork and knife,
And pick up a tightly fitted mask
Whose smile says, “I’m all-right”.