If a girl hits the floor because she hasn't eaten in three days

But she's still fat

Does she even make a sound?

We see eating disorders and depression and anxiety

Through the fucked up lense of television

And tumblr.

We think starvation is equivalent

To thigh gaps and rib cages and collarbones,

Instead of sleepless nights

And patches of hair on the bathroom floor

And tugging pounding scratching

Against the layers of fat that are still there,

Instead of faceless monsters 

Sneaking their way into dreams and nightmares alike

And eventually into a daily lifestyle

That revolves around

Following their orders

Because they know how to fix you

Just skip this next meal

And the next

And maybe all of them.

There's nothing romantic about a girl with her face in the toilet.

Cold hands gripping the colder porcelain

Hoping to empty out every pound

Every ounce

Of the toxic shit you've ingested today

And it's not easy

Like they show on TV

Usually you can't just get it done with your fingers

Although you'll try until they're bloody

And you're not sure if the blood is from your teeth marks or your ruptured throat

And your ribs will be bruised

Because punching yourself in the stomach seems normal

After trying it enough times.

We pretend that depression is built of

Pretty girls or pretty places

With sad words pasted over

And some fancy typography.

It's not forgetting to get that paper handed in

Or forgetting to return every call you've gotten for the past two weeks

Or forgetting how many pills you're supposed to take

Or forgetting that maybe there's a reason why you shouldn't just take them all.

There's nothing pretty about blood stains on comforters.

They're the dirty reminders of nights spend awake

Trying to drain the demons from your mind

Equipped only with a razor blade and enough self hate to rip your legs

Apart.