I hate the way I look when I’m in front of the mirror.
Its a constant battle, always running on my greatest fear.
Who is going to love these rolls and cellulite?
Can’t wear this or that because it feels too tight.
Baggy sweats and sleeping alone at night.
Have to restrict or live with guilt after a meal.
Food is the go to, to change the way I feel.
Eating until my stomach is going to burst.
Punishing myself after, my choices are the worst.
Tomorrow I’ll do better, I won’t do it again.
Hop on the scale and I’ve gained another ten.
Shame and self loathing begin to spiral,
I get on my knees on the bathroom tile.
I have to purge this feeling, immediate relief
Now the enamel is wearing off of my teeth.
Run the water so no one can hear.
That being unlovable is my biggest fear.
I wrote you a letter in purple pen. I was high again. Relapsed the day before after having 6 months clean, and I knew that you knew I was high the last time I saw you at the Care Center. I felt so guilty because I felt like I was crawling out of my skin to get out of that room.
Not because I didn’t want to see you, but there was nothing to do in there with your hospital bed; you could barely get out of and the TV was constantly running. We talked about how you needed to find a new place to live and how I could live with you again and help you out, writing all these ideas and plans.
A few days later, I helped pack up your apartment, trying to save everything because I knew how much you loved all your knick-knacks and junk. You and I were always the sentimental ones. After going through and packing it all up, putting it into storage, just until you were out of the Care Center.
I should have come to see you. I was literally just down the street. Wouldn’t have taken more than 10 minutes to see you. But I was coming down.
All I could think was lets’s get this done so I can go pick up. I didn’t even stop by or call you that day.
I went to the park after getting my fix and started writing you a letter. Telling you how sorry I was that I wasn’t the best kid, and didn’t always appreciate you, and that I know you did your best with what you could; that I loved you.
The next day I was at work and get a call from grandma.
She tells me that you had a heart attack, and you were gone.
I never finished the letter.