bussykiller:

precumming:

what if you got a dollar for everytime you masturbated 

image

(via i-breath-you-in-with-smokee)

Numbers.

I remember being 10,

And not being concerned about the number on the scale.

I was not preoccupied  with thoughts of calories, carbs; the number of (digits in) my pant size.

What I remember most though, was asking my mother at 11 years old if I was fat at 90 pounds.

 

I remember 12 years old and emptying my stomach into anything that would hold it,

hiding the results from my mother-

because I heard it kept you skinny.

 

At 13 and larger than many of the girls my age, boys stared

- not the stares that made girls blush and giggle.

No, stares and snickers with a menagerie of farm sounds while I sat and ate my fruit.

 

At 15 I was told by a boy during a game of Red Rover that

“having me on a team was cheating because I was so heavy.”

I cried.

He never apologised.

 

At 18, 180 pounds, and still untouched,

I rationalised my loneliness as a product of my weight.

no one wanted a fat girl.

 

20. 148 pounds.

" You look amazing.”

“You look  great!”

“ You’re so beautiful!”

a further reminder that my attractiveness is solely based on my weight.

Men turned their lustful gaze on me.

Their words made every pound i lost a victory.

it made me feel worthwhile because someone else wanted me

even though i didn’t want myself.

When they asked how I did it, I would plaster a smile on (across) my face

I described how I watched my food intake,

ate within a set amount of calories

But never specifying how little, if any, calories I actually ate.

I spoke of the hours I spent  in the gym

The strict schedule of running and weights

But not talking about the time I spent bent over a toilet,

nor the inability to drag myself out of bed in the morning.

I didn’t tell them about the sleepless nights in bed,

eyes red from tears,

Counting the calories I didn’t get rid of,

Pinching my stomach and thighs, certain I could feel the added weight.

I was inching myself closer to the body I had always wanted.

I’d tell them how I did it, sure. But not the whole truth.

No-one needs to hear that.



21.170 pounds.

"You worked so hard to lose that weight. What happened?"

as I tried to regain a normal mindset

a mindset not concerned about calories and serving sizes.

To not cry when I had to eat and couldn’t purge.

to not stare at the size 0 models and envy their thigh gaps and beautiful, visible ribcages

and sharp collarbones.

To not feel like everyone was always watching me, judging me,

adding up my flaws in their heads.

 

22. 200 pounds.

No one would care that I had an eating disorder.

Not at my size.

I’m unable to stop myself from eating entire meals at 2 am,

and unable to stop myself from hunching over a toilet,

desperately  trying to remedy my mistake and anxiety.

 

My life is run by numbers.

my age.

my height.

my weight.

my pant size.

 

and I can barely remember ten years old when they did not exist.

 

lapfoxs:

ACCIDENTALLY STEPPING ON A SNAIL

image

(Source: bakrua, via theunknowingirrationalist)

fucknkiss:

murmur-of-half—dreams:

consultingsonic:

madblackgirl:

team 5’5 and under where ya at

they didn’t let us in they thought we were 12

I was told to go over to the middle school

(Source: blackfemalepresident, via rainey-bopper)

atomicairspace:

copperbooms:

when did tumblr collectively decide not to use punctuation like when did this happen why is this a thing

it just looks so smooth I mean look at this sentence flow like a jungle river

(via jessie-jiggles)