Marionette of Flesh in a Borrowed Dress
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EATING DISORDERS
NEDA: Estimates 9% of the U.S. population, or 28.8 million Americans, will have an eating disorder in their lifetime. ANAD: Highlights anorexia nervosa as having the highest case mortality rate and second-highest crude mortality rate of any mental illness. Reports 10,200 deaths each year are the direct result of an eating disorder – that's one death every 52 minutes. NEDA reports only 27% of those with eating disorders receive treatment.
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Growing up, she often felt like a puppet controlled by invisible strings, manipulated by society's unrealistic standards of beauty and perfection. Her journey with eating disorders became a battle against those oppressive forces, a struggle to reclaim autonomy over her own body and mind. I take you into the raw emotions and turbulent thoughts accompanying this journey in this poem. It's a reflection of the tangled web of emotions, the highs and lows, the triumphs and setbacks, that characterize the experience of living with an eating disorder. I hope to shed light on the complexities of this often misunderstood condition. Please seek out help if you think that you have an Eating Disorder from companies like mine that deal with this disease, for you are not alone.
- National Eating Disorders Association (NEDA): https://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/
- National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD): https://anad.org/about/
- Eating Recovery Center: https://www.eatingrecoverycenter.com/recovery-centers
- Pyramid Healthcare https://www.pyramidhc.com/
Blessings,
Daniel
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"Marionette of Flesh in a Borrowed Dress"
- Daniel Henry Rodgers
The hourglass,
a skeletal jester,
mocks in the tomb's chill,
Each falling grain an emaciated sigh,
"Soon you'll cease to be."
The mirror's cold reflection,
a Gorgon's ghastly guise,
A marionette of flesh with vacant...
hollow...
colorless eyes.
The worms, like pallid mourners,
watch me shrink,
A marionette of organs,
cold and pale, pink.
This flesh, a borrowed dress,
once sprightly,
Now stained and thin,
Holds tight the secrets only,
death can win.
This borrowed dress,
a shroud where my story's writ,
In laughter's faded stitch,
and tear's accusing slit.
A map of life etched deep,
with scars that mar the grain,
A raven of fleeting triumphs,
a pendulum of ceaseless pain.
In the shadowed hollows,
where sorrow resides,
I languish,
marionettes of fate's cruel designs.
Each scratch and cut a lament,
each tear a bitter sea,
Bound by the chains of my...
mortality.
In this borrowed dress,
I mourn what could have been,
Lost in the convulsion of my own... sin.
Transformed, but not redeemed,
I drift into the void,
My spirits shattered,
my dreams destroyed.
In the silence of eternity,
I find my rest,
Lost in this body of my own...
detest.
And though this shell,
a chrysalis,
soon withers,
and decays,
I cast aside the shroud,
no longer bound or worn,
Accept the endless night,
where a new self-forlorn is bourne.
Transformed,
a residual relic,
through the void,
I fly,
Suture with stardust catgut,
a worn scroll in the sky.
Copyright © Daniel Henry Rodgers | Year Posted 2024
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