girl, interrupted
Ad 2:
2003-03-01 18:08:52 (UTC)

the angel that feeds me

so here i am again. and why? um, i dunno. i can tell when
i'm starting to sink, because i need to write all the
time, i need to put words down, get some of the buzzing
out of my head.

in the last week i have really fallen, i think the letter
has a lot to do with that, and like tom pointed out to me
last night, i am really fucking nervous about the whole
leaving thing.

i'm so big, and i hate that. i had lost some weight, but
yet again i am back to my heaviest. i'm so ashamed of the
bulimia, i hate it, i hate to admit that i have it. i
remember reading that 33% of anorexics will develop
bulimia, and i remember thinking, shit i hope i am not one
of those...and here i am, in full binge mode and laxative
luxury. when i'm out shopping, i look at the size 8s and i
think, sheesh that's TINY, that can't be normal...and i
think back to when i could have fit all of me into one leg
of a pair of size six trousers. seriously. i'm not
kidding. and i thought i was fat. i probably was, but not
even half as obese as i am now. I HATE IT. i repulse
myself. it feels so bad, it's so hard to accept, it i eat again to make it all go away. fat bastard.

The Angel That Feeds Me...

I am sad,
In the bathroom I see my silver picture:
Joint of pork, flesh bulging out of tight, cutting string.
I go to the kitchen.
My angel is waiting for me,
Sitting on the table.
Butter coloured curls hang down to his waist,
Marshmallow-pink cheeks,
Wet red lips like cut strawberries.
“Come to me”, he says.
I step into his arms,
Press my face against his flat white chest,
Feel his velvet hair.
My angel smells of pastry and toffee,
Chocolate and mint, creamy caramel.
“I will comfort you. I will give you what you need.”
His voice is a thick syrup, nourishing me,
Filling the hole that is my sadness.
I let him feed me.
I let him spoon ambrosia into my mouth,
Spoonful after spoonful, on and on.
Soon it starts to taste bitter and I close my mouth.
I tell him to stop, but he continues
Forcing food into my mouth.
I look at him and notice
That his hazelnut eyes have darkened,
And sharpened to thorns.
He has turned into a demon.
I escape. I run away. I do not need him.
I will not go to him for comfort.
I can live without his sweetness.
For days I am strong.
I see him through windows, hiding in the cupboards,
Holding out a plate of cakes.
Then one day, the sky is grey and I am sad and alone.
I go in search of my angel,
And step into his loving arms…