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
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
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