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Over the past five days I have eaten nothing more than one thousand calories.
My hunger fueled me to keep going.
The stomach pains made me feel beautiful.
Doing cardio would make me light-headed, and it made me proud.
Today I had two glasses of chocolate milk and a bag of chips.
As my stomach inflated with the foreign food, my self-esteem inflated with disgust.
Disgust for my weakness, disgust for my weight, disgust for me.
I desperately tried to use the sick feeling in my stomach to rid myself of the chocolatey sin I had gorged myself with.
I learned that the use of fingers, toothbrushes, or violently pounding against my abused stomach wouldn't convince the food to come back up.
The pain streamed out of my eyes, as I pleaded with any god out there to please, let me throw up.
Shame and anger fill every inch of my being when I realize I won't be able to rid myself of the calories.
I won't even be given the mercy of this small victory.
As disappointment pools in my stomach like the chocolate milk, I promise myself two more hours of cardio tonight, hoping it will be enough to put my self-destructive conscience at rest.



Excuse the poorly written poem, I'm writing this during a nervous breakdown.

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