Energy, Acrylic by Mara McWilliams Mother Earth, Acrylic by Mara McWilliams Fetal, Acrylic by Mara McWilliams
Mara McWilliams

Anorexic-Bulimic Lies


Sick. Nauseous.
Full of contempt.
Hating the living.
Fantasizing of death.
twisting, turning, jumping, churning.
pushing up the fuel I fed my
body so I may continue to live.
40 days and 40 nights.
What's the big deal with that Mr. Big Man Christ?
Wincing. Disgusted.
Praying it away.
Looking in the mirror and seeing my age.
Down. Down.
Pushing this necessary evil down.
Fighting my mind.
Trying to find that happy place inside.
Focusing on the here and now.
Allowing my system to digest this fuel.
The hurt. The pain. The disgust.
Not worth wasting away over.
Power taken, passively and forcibly.
Given away, gladly and reluctantly.
Getting thinner and thinner yet every day.
Too thin...
NEVER thought I'd say that.
Bones popping out everywhere,
even in my back!
Trying to deceive myself that this is
all about looks.
You liars.
You users!
You pain inducers!
No more - enough!
Slow suicide.
Painful starvation.
Heart palpitations.
Chest pains.
Barely enough strength to face another day.
Sick. Nauseated.
Ready to toss...
Feeling so alone.
Drifting...I'm lost.
Dissociation - something self-taught.
Here. There. Everywhere.
Old friends.
Burnt down home
and a cute, but dead kitten.
All living in my whacked out head.
Try to heal, forgive, and move on.
To love. To give.
To teach what I've learned,
as I am spiritually
My heart broken,
again and again.
Stomped on. Stepped on. Tossed aside.
Feeling like a rag doll
without the ability to cry.
Torn, then mended.
Stitched, as if by hand.
Only to have the same thing
over and over again.
Prayers, spells, spiritual cleansings,
yoga, chakra meditation.
Yet here I am,
an old worn rag doll
with zigzag stitches,
fighting down the bile
that challenges my resolve.
Fighting so hard to do what's right,
not for THEM, but for my own well-being.
Standing up for what's healthy for me.
All the while,
just wanting love.
Wanting the KNOWING
that there's someone
in whom I could place my trust.
Bipolar waves,
Borderline urges,
Anorexic denial.
Yearning for alcohol.
Intensely desiring to make pretty little
slices on my arm.
But still,
just WRITING it out.
Praying by pen,
the tool the Universe blessed my fragile hands with.
I write for me to keep my mind in line.
But all the while,
just one person can identify.
May I can help one more get by.
The nausea is passing,
feeling a bit better.
No longer Alice chasing the Mad Hatter.
Tell me,
does any of this make sense to you?

By Mara McWilliams

Please note:
These original poems are all copyrighted and may not be used without the explicit permission of the author.

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