only then.
a poem highlighting the life of an eating disordered teen. autobiographical.

i’m seven years old, sitting on ms.k’s alphabet rug on the dirty classroom floor.
my hands cup the skin on my thighs, as i sit and wonder why the other girl’s don’t look like mine.

i’m almost ten, delicate ballet music plays as point shoes from the devil leap across the floor.
i look in the mirror, and take a deep breath, sucking in my leotarded stomach that isn’t as flat as it “should be.”

i’m eleven, pulling my soccer jersey from my chest, and wishing it would stay.
ignoring the ache in my ribs from a sports bra three sizes too small, an attempt to hide what i don’t want.

i’m twelve, watching as my friends get ready for winter formal.
i sit quietly on the bathroom counter, praying to the heavens that my dress would be the same size as theirs.

please don’t get in my car.
i’m behind the wheel, foot on the gas
but the signs all blur
the red lights look green
as the brakes give out .

please don’t get in my car.
i don’t know how to drive
i passed the test once upon a time
before it crashed and burned.

please don’t get in my car.
i have scars from the wreck
i’m a nervous anxious mess
and i don’t know if i can promise safety.

please don’t get in my car.
maybe if i was different
if the roads weren’t beaten 
and the route wasn’t so messy
but i can’t promise a destination 
besides a crash.

please don’t get in my car.
i don’t know how to love 
without wrecking it.
 

I am confined,

isolated,

but I am strong,

I know who I am,

I'm human.

 

Tomorrow I hope.

Tomorrow I hope for a sunrise,

I hope to see brilliant peaches and oranges illuminate the sky.

I hope the ground is dusted in crisp, white, snow,

and the birds sing a soft, melodious tune.


Tomorrow I hope for a new day,

I hope for a clean slate free of today’s struggles.

I hope to be happy and surrounded by love,

and to laugh so hard my stomach hurts.


Tomorrow I hope for us,

I hope for you to remember us,

I hope for you to value and cherish us,

And to know that you belong to an “us”


Tomorrow I hope for myself,

I hope to know who I am,

I hope for you to remember me,

And for you to love me still.


Tomorrow I hope for you,

I hope that you will find peace,

I hope that you will find the freedom you're longing for,

i’ve been saying i want something more

while holding on to something

with someone

who continuously lets me down

someone who constantly makes love hurt

someone inconsiderate

selfish and negative


i’ve been saying i want something real

while holding on to something

with someone

toxic, unsupportive, unreliable

incapable of telling the truth

so much tension, arguments

all the verbal abuse


i’ve been saying i want true love

while accepting and holding onto the opposite

 

   I looked up from my laptop, my fingers pausing their dance across the keys. The clinking of cups on saucers and aroma of fresh espresso filled the quiet coffee shop, the scent seemingly emitting from the walls. From my quiet and cozy corner, I could see the entirety of the shop. From the local art delicately hung upon the walls, to behind the counter where the worker on shift was swaying slightly to the music playing from his headphones, but I could also see her.

   She sat at the far table, right next to the window. The golden afternoon sunlight shown softly through the glass, catching her chocolate colored hair in the light. I felt my vision tranfix on her, hypnotized by the way she carefully flipped each page of her history textbook, and the way her feet, fitted in beat up white converse, tapped the rustic wooden floor, as though to the beat of a song only she could hear.

When my walls come crashing down,
and the emotions I hide come out,
I find myself thinking of him.

Thinking of the his eyes,
which always shown with the bluest blue,
bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.

Thinking of his laugh,
soft and gentle like a warm jacket
on a cold winter day.

I think about his voice,
always sweet, yet sharp,
like a fresh lemonade.

I think about the hours we spent together,
watching old movies at the drive though,
stargazing by the old willow tree.

I remember the way he talked,
as he pointed out the constellations,
it seemed as if his soul was smiling too.

Sometimes, I think I still see him,
parking his bike by the corner store,
or sitting with his feet dangling at the town docks.

But he’s never there,
it’s only ever a trick of the light,
or a cruel joke of my own imagination.

When my walls come crashing down,
and the emotions I hide come out,
I find myself thinking of him.

Thinking of the his eyes,
which always shown with the bluest blue,
bluer than the sky on a clear summer day.

Thinking of his laugh,
soft and gentle like a warm jacket
on a cold winter day.

I think about his voice,
always sweet, yet sharp,
like a fresh lemonade.

I think about the hours we spent together,
watching old movies at the drive though,
stargazing by the old willow tree.

I remember the way he talked,
as he pointed out the constellations,
it seemed as if his soul was smiling too.

Sometimes, I think I still see him,
parking his bike by the corner store,
or sitting with his feet dangling at the town docks.

But he’s never there,
it’s only ever a trick of the light,
or a cruel joke of my own imagination.

 They say that when we dream, it’s caused by slow brain waves creating narratives that are a mixture of the days events and our imaginations. That these fancy imagines, designed for mental recovery, are of our own creation. But if that is true, somebody tell me why every time my head falls to it’s pillow and my eyes flutter shut, I see it. And why every time I wake up, my mind is full of memories of something that never was.
 I see an old, run-down, wooden shelter, held together by a few nails and planks of wood, glowing in golden afternoon light. I see long, silky, grass and soaring mountains off in the distance. I am confused, always confused, for this is a place I know not, I have never set foot on the ground here.

 Our Vermont world is best to be seen, in late January. Where the still ponds have blossomed into angelic frozen displays and the balsa’s exhale the aroma of incense of the season. Notice how the sun’s rays seem to increase in intensity before diving below the horizon; how the sherbert sky reflects upon the blanketed landscape, giving the view a dreamlike aura.
  Let us walk for miles down the wooded roads, feet crunching and eyelashes coated in the bright, cold, cotton like substance. Let us pass the laughing brook and the frozen pond. Let us pass beneath the white coated branches and trunks. Let us enjoy the echoing silence and the sharp, cold air.
 At this time of year our land must seem an artist's vision of paradise. As strong and brutal as a renaissance painting, but as peaceful and delicate, as watercolor.