make it stop.
I truly can’t take it anymore. I cannot take another single MOMENT trying to wrench the flesh off my bones with my bare hands. it HURTS. purple-red fingerprint bruises bloom on my fat arms and my thick waist. I hear my body tell me how fat I am. my eyes can’t unsee the extra flesh.
I give up (again).
hate flows freely through my veins, as I sit here silently gripping and tearing, twisting. can’t stop.
distract yourself. this comes to mind.
so, here I am. I write.
fingers on my keyboard are silent soldiers of safety. when I’m typing I’m not twisting. I deliberately choose photos that require no special “understanding.” I like being blunt. I prefer in-your-face writing. I like choosing my words carefully; the word choices are my favorites, and each one matters.
just keep writing.
fingers on my keyboard are my silent soldiers, trying so hard to fight.
EXCELLENT work – soldiers PLOD thru the ending.
Why thank you! I wish this wasn’t my truth, but it is. Makes for cathartic writing!
I get the desire to stop the things we keep doing to ourselves. The self-hatred with an eating disorder goes fathoms deep.