Anorexia was supposed to make me beautiful

I was not used to being called beautiful,
but that one time,
that one time made me greedy;
I was laughing at a joke with my friend
When this I rarely talked to walks to me and says,
“You’re beautiful.”
I was 13;
But the cracked mirror has something else to say
“There’s nothing of worth there.
Why would she appreciate your cheeks so plump,
The fat lingering around your waist?”
I am 15;
Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw
A girl with eyes so sad
And a body so fat.
Wearing a big sweater and a book in hand,
Candle light and sipping tea,
I lock myself in the bathroom,
The mirror, it’s still cracked;
I examine every minute detail of my face,
My mother’s call for dinner deftly ignored,
I curl up in my bed and fall into a restless sleep;
I am 17;
I eat after a day of not eating
Just a slice of bread,
Purge! Purge! Purge!
Every bone in my body tells me to purge;
I do not sleep that night, I cannot;
The day, I spend an hour in front of the mirror,
It’s new,
I go through the razor sharp angles on my face,
I apply concealer on my wrists.
I’ve already worn an oversized sweater,
Just in case.
Lunch, need I say I skip,
The number on the scale is still too large.
I run my hand over my torso,
I’m having a bad day
Or a fat day as I call it;
‘Skip dinner’, I remind myself,
I am 19;
The sweater’s cozy, I’m still cold,
Candles are just another way to self harm
The tea is bitter;
I’m never getting any closer to beauty,
I’ll never
Get any closer;
The mirror sways slightly on the wall,
I steady it with my hand.
My face, still plump in faces,
Fat is all I see, it needs to go;
I search for the pill
And gulp it down with water;
I am 23;
I swear I’m not human,
Maybe it’s a superpower I’ve acquired,
This, this has to stop!
I’m not a superhero, I’m too weak for that.
I am 25;
I write my first poem,
It goes something like this,
“I am a girl made up of sweatshirts and diet pills,
I am a girl who wants to die and soon I will.”
My mother calls for dinner,
This isn’t the last thing I write;

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Plans

Two years ago at the peak of my #depression
or at the lowest depths of #misery
or as some said just a “bad phase”
I lay in bed staring at the ceiling,
eating dahi chawal, once a day
I did nothing beside lying , staring and my once a day meal of white starch and probiotics;
And phone calls,
I ignored phone calls
All of them
My friends weren’t #happy ,
The literatis were sniggering
And the #poets ashamed;
My mom was proud
She got me a notebook , the girliest notebook I’ve ever seen
I loved it nonetheless, I still do
She asked me to start by making plans
I did
Thursday
Get up from the bed
Take a shower
Monday
Get up from the bed
Take a shower
Do the dishes
Six months later
Monday
Get up from the bed
Take a shower
Eat breakfast
Do the dishes
Apply to J schools
Some plans worked out and some days I did not take a shower

It’s 2017
I’m dangling over a thin line between #sane and #insane
They say plan, to get a job, a master’s degree
Some plans may work some might not
but I’ll at least take a shower

Hands

Holding hands wasn’t enough,
I had to memorize
Every cut and corner, bruised knuckles and calloused palms,
Nails, dirt, past;
He says I have small hands
His, they are too big,
So when our fingers interlock, we let gravity do its trick
And perfect our handhold;
Tickling pianos and strumming guitars,
We keep it simple, silly.

Succeeding in Heartbreak

I will not shed cliche tears,
Instead
I will try mixing different proportions of milk, cream, coffee, chocolate and cinnamon too
I will cook, prepare my own meals, not spend a dime on eating out;

I will not reminisce about the past
Instead
I will dip my hands in paint, doodle the loneliness away;

I will not eat ice cream and watch friends or a silly rom-com.
Instead
I will watch the ‘Schindler’s list’, ‘A beautiful Mind’ and ‘Fight Club’ maybe
And more, which they say one must;
We could talk about movies then, long conversations
And not the ones which go like:
You : “Hi, have you seen the Perks of being a Wallflower?”
Me: “Yes I have. I really liked that movie.”
”You: “So did I.
Me: “Hmm.”
You: “Hmm.”
I won’t check my phone for text messages. Let them pile up;
A large number will increase the probability of one being from you,
I will not use my phone much; Only when mom calls.

I won’t get drunk and rant my mess away
Instead
I quit drinking; it’s been a month already.
I plan on not drinking for a long time now,
But maybe celebrate the day you return with champagne. Or vodka.
Champagne is pricey.

I will write to you,
I’ll write often;
Instead
I will work on my book:
I’ll mention you in the acknowledgements
Like I promised.
When you come back, we will have a lot to talk about;
When you come back, I will have a lot of stories to tell;
I hope you do too;

Write love on your arms

For my unborn daughter

  1. Reach out to the sky. Put your hands on your neck and feel yourself throbbing. Rhythmically. Layers of stars like translucent blankets over blankets. Live for it.
  2. Dip your fingers in paint. Smudge the walls. Paint a rainbow, bask in its glow.
  3. Buy an expensive perfume. Fall in love with your scent.
  4. Rummage through your vanity. Wear the wine red lipstick you’ve always wanted to.
  5. Draw a bath. Pour bubblebath. Light some candles. Pamper yourself. You deserve it.
  6. Dye your hair a crazy color. Better yet, chop it off. It’ll always grow back.
  7. Call your mother. Tell her you love her. She loves you too.

Smudges of ink and mud.

The wind whispers secrets from across the oceans. Percolating to my roots,

A lover’s spat, giggling teens, a war and squeaky babies,

Casual banter, alcohol, hash, I’ve seen them fighting with shadows,

Convincing they’re worth following;

Hands clutching bottle mouths like edges of stars,

Sunshine, teeth, comets and blood;

Dew drops, acid, tears and sweat,

I’m not meant for salt, his least favorite word is pansy, he doesn’t mind gay,

Hers is almost;

Poetry, prose, fiction, honey, butterflies and scissors,

Axe, dogs and men and trampled upon, spattered;

With mud and paint, I’ve known it all;

Jumbled thoughts, I hide behind metaphors,

Music, beats and rhythmic sobs.

What you lose when you say Goodbye

Orange trucks,memories,piggy back rides,
Mid day texts and smiley faces,green snap backs,
7 year olds, curly hair and white dresses,
Hands intertwine in a zipper of prayer, purple balloons,
Wine, a friend, a lover, family;
Blue umbrellas and words of encouragement, sling bags and doodles;
I down bottles pretending their mouth is someone else’s, success at heartbreak,my eyes are raisins;
tea, almonds and cakes,
Fluttery lashes,bracelets,knuckles, and grey skies
Million kisses on the nose, teardrops, sweat and blood;
Caress, touch, breath, dew, pumpkins and fall
turquoise sky, second chances and love;