Beautiful


Beautiful

Beautiful is what we call the morning sunrise, we stand in awe of the colors, amazed at what the earth can do.

Beautiful is what we call the stars at night when we stare up at the sky with a friend and you find yourself more often than not looking at them rather than the stars.

Beautiful is what we call a family reunion where a mother holds her child, an infant holds on to a finger, a father hugs his daughter, and a brother’s love connects to the heart of the fallen.

Beautiful is what we look at when we stare at our books and our fingers trace the pages like battle wounds we heal by reading them.

These are all beautiful things.

But, I am not beautiful.

I stand in the mirror and agonize over every inch of my body asking God “why did I let myself become so fat?” I pinch and punch at every inch of fat hanging off of what should be my thin frame, my beautiful body is anything but.

But, I am not beautiful.

When I wake up in the morning, I stare at my stomach and I feel shame and guilt in the area that once grew a child for ten weeks. I move my hand to the area of the womb and I slowly drag my legs over my bed as I walk to the bathroom and I try to imagine if I could love the bastard of the child and I would forgive myself for ever allowing my fragile body to once be pregnant.

But, I am not beautiful.

I eat my food slowly with each bite, trying to save the flavor but avoid the taste of it going down my throat into my stomach where the calories will collect in my thighs that will grow large enough to create the second Grand Canyon. So I drink my coffee and slurp my water down and move my body over the toilet where I show my body just how much I hate it for existing, and how much I want to disappear and become small enough you have to blink to see if I’m still there.

But, I am not beautiful.

I crawl back into my bed, pulling the blankets far above my head and I lay there praying to a God I don’t believe in that he will allow me to sleep for an hour at a time before I wake up officially to start my day and pretend that I am okay.

But, I am not beautiful.

I stand in the shower with tears rolling down my cheeks to convince myself I am fine. I don’t ask for mercy, I don’t plan my end, only which meal will I keep down today. My tongue feels my teeth, the grossness is there, the acid has worn down of what was once there. They’re yellow and hideous, that’s vomit for you. I step out and dry off, my hand touches my thigh, tracing over the scar in capital letters FAT as I debate to reach a razor to re carve the truth into my soft flesh, but the knock at the door has chosen for me.

But, I am not beautiful.

I try to dress myself in an outfit that shows me nothing, I hide behind whatever I can find, it doesn’t help that I’m bald, my head is far from beautiful, it’s ugly it’s so shiny, my hair is long gone.

But, I am not beautiful.

The night has finally come where I can lay down my head, but I won’t sleep, not tonight, not again. The images, the flash and haunt my soul. The actions repeat themselves and it happens with their hands in my body, the tongue tracing the outline of my breast, the fingers stroking a nipple. I wake up screaming, I shake underneath my own skin fearful of touching what they have touched.

But, I am not beautiful.

I go upstairs and cook some mashed potatoes with some gravy and I eat an ungodly amount of food,
I drink three diet cokes, and I slurp some salt water down and stand over the toilet again, and sometimes for good measure I pee on a stick and wait for the negative line to appear to know I am still here, and I am still safe.

But, I am not beautiful.

I crawl back under the covers, I close my eyes tight, I pray to the God I still don’t believe in, and
I ask for just two hours of sleep before round two begins, but if just once, if just this one night you can let me sleep, I promise I’ll be better tomorrow, God.

I promise I’ll get my shit together, God,
I promise I’ll be a better daughter and a better friend, God,
I’ll be better please God, just make it stop, God,
Just for a minute God,
Please, God,
I will be better,
God,
Please.

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This Poems Story

Hello, name is Mikki. I've battled for four years with bulimia, and have been fighting for recovery from my eating disorder. This poem may be difficult to read as it touches on topics such as abuse, sexual assault, eating disorders, and self harm. I wrote this poem as a way to explain to a friend what it felt like going through my day, and how I see myself most days of the week. Though we are no longer friends anymore, I find this poem helps me cope with some of the overwhelming emotions that can come from it. I am in no way a good or professional writer, one day I would like to do slam poetry, but as of right now I have too much anxiety to stand in front of a class of 11, let alone an audience. *I also have Alopecia which is an autoimmune disease that causes my hair to fall out, which references a line mentioning having no hair.* Thanks for reading it if you make it through the whole thing =)