He looks at you,
all cheekbones and
sharpsharp teeth and you melt into a pool of flesh
and mismatched emotions.
You’ve always been powerless to ignore the haunting gaze
you’re weaker than you know.
Weak for a pretty boy, a pretty boy who has no interest in the half-tonne heretic calling your body its home. Suck in your stomach, concave and flatflatflat and stick outoutout your rib cage until the taut skin begins to bruise.
You will be perfect for him (foryourself)
He’s the prettiest thing you ever looked upon and yet so foul it hurts to look at him. They say self-destruction is beautiful- romantic- ?
but you just feel ugly.
He breaks you down with every snide comment and scathing gaze and yet you try your hardest to make him love you; to make him feel something in his cavernous heart that beatbeatbeats with the pounding of-
He has no heart and yet…
Skin and bones and the flesh in between; you miss his smell and his tiny hands. He loves himself but that’s okay because you do, too. Love him. You do, really.
He promises you gold and diamonds but gives you nothing but icy cold to make your bones ache. You try and give him your body, your soul but all he takes is your words
You have 206 bones in your body and want to see them all. You promise yourself that you’ll drink black coffee and nothing else for a week- two weeks- a month and the rest of your life but you do not have the willpower
you die trying.
Where there was once laughter and love and so many kisses you felt like you could drown on his tongue, there is now black numbers on a white scale and so much hate you cannot hear.
You stand naked on the tiny white box and sob so hard your chest begins to ache.
Where the tiny needle points is where your life ends
he cannot know for he would leave you laughing.
You close your eyes and count to ten and count the ribs on your paperskin but it feels like the end.
He promised you happiness but all you feel is raw. He makes you miserable but you cannot bear to leave him for fear of being alone.
He hugs you (he can feel your fat).
He kisses you (he can taste the failure on your tongue).
He fucks you into the mattress (but cannot look into your eyes).
He hates you but you cannot let him go.
He tells you you’re beautiful, and calls you baby and your heart refuses to melt. He calls the girl half your size a whale and you purge the dinner you refused to eat. You’re an imperfect masterpiece, and he’s your divine creator.
You cover it up with brilliant smiles and donkey brays but you’re crumbling inside yourself and he just can’t see it and it makes you sad.
You wish he’d see the tiny girl you could be (willbe).
You can’t fake it anymore, and he sees you crying and cries with you.
He feels the bones and the raised bumpy cuts and refuses to leave your room. You scream at him to ‘leave you the fuck alone’ but he hugs you to his chest and you melt.
You melt into a pool of emotionless vomit and he grimaces.
It’s been three months and you’re 11 pounds lighter and your hair is now an uneven shade of orange. You beam at him like there’s nothing wrong and he’s not lying when he says he loves you but inside you’re barley scraping by.
The little black numbers still rule your life.
The scale says 6st9 but they’re lying and you can no longer breathe. Your hipbones bruise your skin and your collarbones slice like knives but
you cannot see your soul.
The punishment for your fat comes when he does, and he refuses to touch you.
You cry because it’s all you want.
Your welts are fading with your life, and the empty compliments he showers you with do not permeate your skin. You’re burning with desire but the fire burns unnoticed. It’s been months since he loved you but that’s okay because you do not love yourself.
The scale says 5st12 but you laugh because it’s lying.