Five Years

April is the cruelest month

It’s been two years to the day
since I walked out of the dressing
room and hung up my ballet shoes.

Two years into a five year sentence,
you said when I told you.

It’s funny,
you always said,
how an eating disorder seems to be
the only time when your lows are your
high points and your high points are
your lows.

I laughed because you have to laugh
or else, you’ll cry.

I clung to that,
the knowledge that someone else understood
the way my battered brain kept going.

And one day what’s lost can be found

Your words are my lifeline,
keep me sane in this fight against my brain.
I see you shouting at me.
anyone would think you don’t bloody want
to get better! You can’t give up!

Some days I want to get better.
Some days I want to get thinner.

Two years of learning, unlearning and relearning
the definition of what makes a woman.
Height, weight, heart, soul.

Two years of winning and losing and fighting
and surpressing and controlling and denying.
Two years down, three to go.

Five years.

I am crying in the bathroom. It is April
Forgetful snow has melted,
uncovered things forgotten.
Eyes are sharpening around me again.
It is desperation of the highest order.

And I can’t help but ask myself how much I’ll let the fear take the wheel and steer

Standing wavering before the mirror.
Close your eyes.
Punch fingernails through palms in fist-tightened hands.
Open your eyes.

You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

Turn around and walk back in.

You know what?
I can’t do this, I’m sorry. I’m going home.

You walked two miles down an Islington high street looking for a
road sign so I could key it in the sat nav to come and pick you

I understood.

What have I become, my sweetest friend?

He wouldn’t have left me if I was thin.

I don’t know what’s worth fighting for

I am weak,
slumped in the corner,
elbows rested on knees,
pressing over my ears, eyes tightly shut.

Never again, you promised me, never again.

oh lord, please save me from myself!

I am desperate, feel wild. Pick at the scars on my legs.
Six months in, four and a half years to go.
I did not understand my sentence, felt
turned the pain inwards,
gained strength through wounding,
hope from pain.

Now I know:
This is not life,
but will pass away. I cling to the covers,
take deep breaths, cry, if needs be.
I will stay strong.

I’m breaking the habit.
I’m breaking the habit tonight.

Five Years


Joined June 2008

  • Artist

Artist's Description

The title is Bowie.

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