This Is... Me

Distress seeps through my every pore,

plaguing my body through physical and mental scorn.

I appear to get even more gangling

with each new rise,

my mind tells my appetite to wake up

but the beast still lies.

My immune system is shaken

but I have seldom normal days in between,

and I fear that I am starting on the path

my mother traveled after her life got too mean.

The mirror image is tainted though

because at least I have a drug ban,

with each new day I try to be the best me that I can.

When people look at me though

they only see me as an underweight little girl,

not the struggling woman

that would give anything to not have her stomach curl.

This is the image that you see on the covers of magazines,

everyone seems to want that for themselves

but let me tell you it is not at all what it seems.

You shiver in disgust when you think I'm not looking

after you eye my bone thin hands,

the only meat on me is my assets

which the male eye lands.

I cringe in disgust at how stereotypical that statement really is,

yet some seem to fall in line with it.

You really think that when a girl walks down the street

they want you to beep your horn at the rhythm of their walk?

The only women that want that from strangers are the girls

that could care less to talk.

You think that because of my thin frame

I don't know how to wield a bat?

Or is that only wishful thinking on your part,

because you only want that?

Be modest when it comes to a woman

and please try to understand,

that she had to go through hell

to be where she now stands.

She's a survivor; she fought her way through,

please treat her as more

because for her it has been long overdue.

If you lift up my shirt

you will undoubtedly see ribs,

but you will never understand how much

that I never wanted this.

You will never know how long I stood in the mirror and cried,

disgusted with myself but also thanking God that I am alive!

I never wanted to have such low self-esteem,

once upon a time the broken girl had a magnificent dream.

My face is full but someday that too will wither away,

for the day will come when not but ash is what shall stay.

A family member called me a liar today when I got sick,

thinking that I didn't want to do something important to me

today... and not realizing that when confronted, I tend to kick.

Even when I tell the truth people tend to call it a lie;

it always ends the same, with tears cascading down my face

and upon my lips there is a sigh.

When you are underweight and your immune system is down,

viruses seem to infiltrate your body all year round.

There really is no peace for the restless mind,

tangled in a past that coils and binds.

I am trying to fight my way through all this

but it doesn't help that when

people look they don't seem to see...

the heart that is cradled within the shell

that is me.