I can't forgive myself for the new plague I've created for myself
called recovery.
called weakness.
called fat.
OUT. OF. CONTROL.
The only thing I have left is counting.
what is food
but a number
what is drink
but a number
what is a swallow
but a handful of guilt
and pain
and regret
and hate
hate for the massive mirrors that prove
what I have done.
recovery.
is it weakness
is it worth the pain
I should've died
and I never cried, over that
I cried over the cheese the nurses made me eat
the breads down in my stomach, I was forced to keep
down. down. down.
like my mind, like my mood, as low as my feet.
up. up. up.
scale numbers climbed. caloric levels climbed.
til I became this mess of a person
this SLOB of a person.
Is this ed? or is this me
