Bowl of Tears

I wonder how others are able to get through it.

I am not strong enough.

The past year has made me weak. 

I have grown tired and weary

of the constant battle to survive;

the constant battle to thrive;

the constant battle to relate.

I look down at the bowl before me.

The cup is filling up more and more.

My tears are rolling down my face,

dripping off my chin,

and throwing themselves into the bowl before me. 

My mother weeps.

How it must pain her to see her daughter this way;

so broken and beaten down,

so small and fragile,

ready to break at any minute.

Perhaps I am already broken.

My sister hasn't talked to me in weeks.

Why would she?

I am no longer a role model to her.

I hope more than anything

that she will not follow in my footsteps.

I am not someone she should become.

My mother begs for me to eat.

I can't.

I can't.

I must,

but I can't.

I look into her eyes and beg her to stop.

Stop crying.

Stop cooking for me.

Stop caring about me.

I don't deserve any of it.

She tells me she can't.

I know she is right.

I look down at the bowl of my tears once more.

I pick up a spoon and eat.

I can.

Author's Note

I write this poem to inspire anyone out there who is struggling with an eating disorder or disordered eating of any type to pick up the spoon and gain back your strength. You are beautiful and you are not alone.