On Being Bulimic

to vomit is really quite simple
when you normalize the feels
of the finger pushing further
down your throat to reach the meals

that you hate yourself for eating
but you couldn’t stand to starve
so you gorged yourself in garbage
until your stomach was enlarged

so commences daily actions
following three meals a day
jumping jacks to get you going
then your head whips down to pray

to the toilet as you’re hurling
waiting to start to dry heave
then you know that you’ve succeeded
and got all the fat to leave

over time you begin shrinking
but you never tell your shrink
wearing baggy clothes to hide it
growing weaker than you think

reading blogs on how to puke
but not following the advice
so you know it’s not a problem
tell everyone that it’s alright

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

 

STAY

sad hearts and heavy hands
taking over my body
so I can’t even stand
talking like pain’s my hobby

you go so here I stay
screaming to a silent wall
you always walk away
never there to see me fall

I bleed and you don’t know
look behind you’re never there
feelings you never show
so I can’t tell if you care

mind numb, suctioned with hate
suffocating all my thoughts
can’t even contemplate
all my thinking turned to knots

so I just wait to die
getting through another day
sometimes I wonder why
I even make the choice to stay

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

Lunch Poem

does my soul still stretch for the past?
stuck in a self-destructive seventeen year olds
mind, never growing up but growing old
all the while because I can’t stop time

do I long for life or death now?
my post suicidal mind wouldn’t know
which one to tell you, I just stay scared
all the time because I can no longer tell
wrong from right

so I stay in the darkness when I greet
each decision of the day, my thoughts
haven’t been clear for a while and here I am

simply wondering if a cigarette and coffee
count as eating a meal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann

Bedtime Stories

words spill out of my body
only in the hours in which I am so
sleep deprived that my senses
do not filter out my authenticity
with an anxiety to write something
beautiful, instead my insides turn
out and I am exposed for all
that I am in the least poetic sense

I crave being pretty poetry and yet
my lines only ever align in the time
which I am barely even conscious
breathing heaviness behind my eyes
forcing my hand to stroke the page
for only a few more words written
before I fail to stay awake
trying to grasp my aching wonder
suppressed into a sleepy mind

 

 

 

 

 

 

by Angela Bachmann