Ice pops colored like an American rainbow
melt down the peach skin arms of children
sitting, laughing, on their mamas’ laps.
They don’t know of the war or
that Uncle Johnny “couldn’t make it” because
Aunt Therese had her hands
down some other lad’s pants.
They laugh at the tickle
of the wind on their uncovered toes
and they cry from popped rainbow bubbles
splashing bitter liquid in their eyes—
a fiery explosive blasting on the surface
stinging all the way down
to the bottom of their bums.
“It’s okay, baby,” one mama says
as she cradles a head of
soft sandy curls, dripping
the messy stream of saltwater tears.
They extinguish the flame
unlike the rainbow of reds and yellows
burning up the insides
of uncle Johnny sitting
alone at the bar, or
torching the Iraqi streets,
charcoaling the cheeks of innocent hearts.
The American Rainbow
Ice pops colored like an American rainbow
I saw an angel
on the bus,
with calligraphy curves
and willowy limbs,
and she was beautiful
and I wasn’t lustful, or envious,
just a happy admirer.
with her lady-like hands,
and sucked it in.
And it broke my heart to think
even angels cry.
Staff note: Simply Beautiful
Hi guys. It’s National Eating Disorders Awareness Week and as you probably know (if you follow me on here), I suffered from bulimia and anorexia for about 7 years. I am in my third year of recovery and feel as though I owe it to you guys to raise awareness for such a disgusting disease, and to lend out my hand to those who need it. NO ONE should have to suffer in the way that I did, or worse than I did, or less, or at all. It has the ability to ruin your relationships (with others and especially with yourself), your future, your health, and your life.
I honestly feel there is not enough knowledge out there about this disease and because of that, more and more men, women, boys and girls are suffering in the dark without the support they need to get through it and make it to the light. And everyone deserves to reach the light, because it’s a BEAUTIFUL thing to be able to drag yourself out of the downward spiral of an eating disorder and see what life really has to offer. Living with an eating disorder is not a life. It’s living in hell while being convinced that being miserable is what you want and deserve. No human being deserves to live like that.
This is me offering my hand to those of you who are in the dark about this disease. If there is something you don’t understand, or something you want to know in order to help a loved one who you think may be suffering (or maybe that loved one is yourself), I am opening my arms to YOU. You don’t have to go through this alone.
freckledmary asked: your recent post on Anorexia is amazing. As someone who has struggled with and conquered such a force, I just wanted to commend you on your work. Keep it up! :)
Thank you so much! I’m glad you enjoyed it. Thank you for reading :) Stay strong <3
hopeinsidelove asked: Boom! Thanks Denise:) . You are so strong and wonderful:) , Love Patrick!
thank you!! as are you :)
[My] Friend Perfect
She just…invited herself in. Could you believe that?
Well, yeah. I let her in…AFTER she invited herself. Was I supposed to say no? No—I know, I know. But you know the kind of person I am. I can’t just say “no.” Especially since I’d sort of wanted her to come. And she sort of knew that. I might’ve even asked her once… Like, “hey, wanna come over?” What an idiot. But I figured she’d forgotten. I figured she didn’t care enough about me to remember me even asking. She already had her group, you know? Her loyal group. So why would she trust me?
So, I figured she’d forgotten and I went about my business as if I’d never asked. But, shit. I’d left the door OPEN for her. She knew it was open. So…she eventually came around and took advantage of me.
I liked it.
No—NO!—not now. You know I don’t now. I don’t even talk to her anymore. I mean, she tries but I usually ignore her. She thinks I’m not listening…but I do. I do listen. I just, listen and ignore it, though. Like, I hear what she says but I don’t take it in. I mean, when she tries to come around. Does that make any sense?
I’ve seen her hanging with her new friends. Yeah, she’s always hanging with a new crowd…and they all LOVE her. Like, worship. It makes me SO sick. I wish I could just go up to them and tell them the truth—that she’s a lying sack of shit that’ll just stab you in the back. That she’ll make you feel good like you’re cheating the system but it’s all for herself and her sick little plan. God, she’s such a sneaky fucking bitch.
Well, they wouldn’t believe it, anyway. I mean, if they’re hanging out, then she’s already corrupted them. They’ll do anything she says now. No, I’m being serious. Anything. You know, the same shit I used to do. Ha, what a fucking joke, man.
You know a girl died from her? Well, a lot of girls did. But this poor girl…They hadn’t even hung out for more than FOUR months and she killed her. Actually, no, wait. It was her sister…but whatever, same difference. They’re like, the same person. But yea! Just like that. Four months. Isn’t that crazy? Like, that could’ve been me. Dude, it almost was. I mean, SHE didn’t try to kill me herself. But she tried to convince me to do it…like, she really tried…and, you know, she was SO cool and she promised me that if I did it then everything would be better and amazing and, that I’d be perfect…
She always told me that.
“You’ll be perfect!”
“You could be perfect!”
“And then you’ll be perfect!”
I was never just, “Perfect.”
Just she was. She, Anorexia, she was perfect.
My Demon and Me
I haven’t written in a while, and have been doing extraordinarily well. However, I missed a couple days of my meds and can’t seem to concentrate. There’s a burning memory from when I was sick in my head and I needed to write about it. Writing is therapeutic for me, as throwing up used to be. Instead of purging my meals, I now purge my feelings onto my desktop. Enjoy [without being too frightened by my past (emphasis on “past”)].
I stared back into the dirty bathroom mirror at the dauntingly dark pupils that had flooded their surrounding irises with black despair and sucked in the energy that had intentions of killing what was left of the little girl in the reflection before me. It was somewhere around 4 AM and the slight scent of vomit filled the small, dim bathroom. The little girl in the mirror lifted her hand to wipe the tears from her swollen cheeks, but the swarming black energy that’d grew in my stomach quickly spilled through my arm and into my hand and viciously swung it across her face, leaving a throbbing red hand print. Good, my demon said through a grin. That’s what happens when you don’t do what you’re told.
|||You don’t have to be pretty. You don’t owe prettiness to anyone. Not to your boyfriend/spouse/partner, not to your co-workers, especially not to random men on the street. You don’t owe it to your mother, you don’t owe it to your children, you don’t owe it to civilization in general. Prettiness is not a rent you pay for occupying a space marked “female”.|
What we Starved for
“Too skinny,” I used to interpret as a compliment. It used to be something I idolized. Something I longed for, starved for. I’d spend hours gazing at the “too skinny” features: the bony legs, bony shoulders, bony hips, bony cheeks, bony butts, bony thighs. Ripping images of models from magazines and pasting them to the backs of the hatred-filled pages of my notebook-diary, I had given myself up to a world of artificial happiness. To sacrifice my life, my friends, my family, and my health seemed as logical as is putting on a seat belt on a highway in a snowstorm.
I came across such an image today, and thought, “why the fuck would I want to look like that?”
For I am my own being, not a manufactured mannequin.
I was given a figure to embrace it, not destroy it.
I am a woman.
Never again will I give up my sex appeal for media standards.
“There’s something terribly wrong with me,” the 20-something petite blonde said to the man in the white coat as he grazed the otoscope’s light from one eye to the other.
“What are your symptoms?” he asked calmly, adjusting the thin frame of his glasses.
She thought for a moment, mentally reliving the specific incidents during which the novel feelings occurred. In doing so, the doctor recognized his patient’s sudden change in behavior. He jotted down several brief notes in green ink as she began describing the new, strange mannerisms that brought her into his office. Posture straightened, voice softened, accelerated breathing, light facial expression. The familiar symptoms the girl was describing started coming together and interrupted his writing as a smug smirk developed on his unshaven face. Nothing was wrong with her; she was, in fact, perfectly well. But instead of sending the troubled girl on her way, he settled on taking her bait.
“What is his name?” he asked bluntly. The question nearly had her choking on her words.
“Whose name?” she demanded as a large dose of confusion pulsed through her body, first her head, then quickly making its way down her chest and through her limbs.
“You met a boy. What is his name?”
After a moment of staring at him with wrinkled brows and a dropped jaw, she allowed herself to unfreeze from position and plumped back against the wall. She shook the additional confusion from her recently troubled head and brushed a loose piece of hair from her lip before answering the question.
As the boy’s name fell fluidly from her tongue, a jolt of desire shot through her body, quick and sharp like electricity. She has forgotten what it’s like not to long for his chiseled, olive-toned arms to be wrapped around her waist. After breathing out his name, she involuntarily sunk into a daze, imagining the thrill of grazing her manicured fingertips over his intoxicatingly toned figure. She gasped for air, suddenly feeling that the simple task of breathing has become unnatural. The jolt of desire was now pulsing in the delicate terrain between her pale thighs. Crossing her legs and folding her hands tightly in her lap, the girl anxiously attempted to manage the spell the boy has placed on her. Speak, her subconscious scolded her. Say something.
“I…he…he’s…” her lips kept moving but her throat only allowed for short, nonsensical words to slip through the small opening. Again recognizing the warm, steady pulse beneath her French navy jeans, she swallowed the lump in her throat and stood in hopes of shaking the captivating pull the boy’s name had placed on her. It’s amazing, she thought, what just saying his name out loud could physically do to me. Her face flushed with embarrassment as she remembered she was in the presence of someone—an older man at that.
“I have to go,” she managed in a timid but urgent tone. Mortified that the doctor would somehow be able to see the erotic desires that were racing through her head, she grabbed her keys and flung her white fringed purse over her bare shoulder before stumbling towards the office door.
“Hey,” the doctor called out just before she exited. Without turning to him, she paused as her hand gripped the doorknob to let him know she was listening. “Enjoy it,” he added. She thought she could hear a smile resonating through his words. “He sounds perfect for you.” Her face flushed again.
She turned the cold brass knob counter-clockwise and exploded through the archway, freeing herself from the awkward encounter. Her eyes locked to the ground as she made quick, clumsy strides through the building and out to the parking lot where her beat-up 2004 Toyota Prius sat alone, baking in the sun. Shoving the key into the driver’s side, she swung the door open and collapsed into the warm seat. The lascivious spell was taking over yet again and she couldn’t help but to touch herself, imagining it was his powerful hands caressing her; fondling her chest, then her stomach, then her thighs… She gasped for air again and threw back her head, sinking lower and lower into the faded cushioning. She needed him, now. Suddenly she sat up and began frantically shuffling through the fringed bag for her phone. Upon finding it, she started the car and buckled her seatbelt before making a call.
“Hello,” the low, husky voice said through the phone, as if the man on the other end was expecting to hear from her.
“Adam. I’m coming over” the girl whispered, her words domineering yet amazingly sensual.
“Thank God. I’ll be waiting for you,” he replied. With that she tossed the phone to the passenger’s seat and sped out of the lot, eager to silence the unfamiliar, erratic yearning (if only momentarily).