You are the bark of the blossom tree.

The rough untamed exterior,

Constantly looking up in adoration

To the flowers perched on the tip of each branch.


They become your aspiration

Your inspiration,

Those thoughts at midnight that prance around your head,

Like sirens.


You’ll plan and plan some more.

Eat this.

Don’t eat this.


Eat this.

Don’t eat that.



Don’t eat.


Till every aspect of your day revolves around those deadly angelic tones of song.


And slowly you start to disappear.

Pieces of you missing fading into nothingness

And your ribs become your prison bars.


They trap you, lock you in.

You can see them.

They stick out through your skin forcing their way out of your body.


Your hands begin to shake.

Skin crack.

Hair and nails snap.

Unmissable to others, missed by you.

Your eyes drawn to the prison bars wrapped around your chest.

Only slipping away from the reflection of your constructed form,

A work in progress,

To return to those flowers.


Those delicate beings,

With slim stomachs, small delicate thighs.

They’re the delicate sketches of an architect positioned in your harsh brain:

The ideal body.


And so you continue,

You starve, purge, beat, break your body.

Your brain screams and shrieks “you’re not working hard enough.”


You’re like a dog chasing its tail,

A rabbit caught in the headlights unable to move

Unable to stop moving.

Moving in circles.

Never complete.
They say an object won’t stop moving until it is stopped.

By Eliza Caraher