Trigger warning: This post contains an extensive discussion of anorexia, depression, and bulimia.
Self, you are stranded, fist-hole behind your sternum.
What is hurting, self? The ice-pick in your back, the needles in your joints? No, it is the other, it is the absence; it is the nameless void coiled inside your stomach.
You are not yourself, self, you are a person, becoming. Your mind is revisionist history preserved in shrink wrap.
Someone, please tether sad, helium me.
You are afraid of hands, of strength. Still you long, little-self-inside-big-self, to lift arms for uppy.
You are two—three—people sharing one mind.
Breath snagged and hand on phone, and inside voice saying, “You are the fault line. You have numbers, and you have love, but you are a jail cell.”
If self cries in a room of one, does self truly hurt?
Remember the one who died? Self says you destroyed him, will destroy them. Are only ever destruction.
Trying to puke turned your face purple-red, and you promised self, you would tell. But you promised, self, no fingers down your throat.
No food for this uncontrollable self.
Mia says, “Listen, chew and spit, but do not swallow. You will hate yourself, but Ana will be kinder momentarily.”
Shake your head until the lies fall from your ears.
You are not in hell, you say, hell is for dead people.
Self, you are so dead inside.
When you die, self, you say, you want to be buried, six feet under.
No fire, no ashes, no dispersal of you. You want to take up space.
Self, you were put here to fill more than just dirt. You were meant to be expansive, your mind a multiverse; do not let them diminish you.