by Loren Cocciolone

I strive to be a collection of the misconceptions and self perceptions of perfection.

Molding into the cold, fake gold outside appearance that is reflected by this defected mirror.

I only see what I want to see.

A me, full of seeping flaws, creeping through my skin and weeping their insecurities.

I spend days laying in bed, a slave to the sayings in my head

Wishing I were dead.

Because dead is better than obsessed.

Never getting dressed in older clothes.

Stressed over the messed up press of this dress on my body

I mold myself into wishes and desires.

With the higher standards that are required I sacrifice every lovely taste for losing waste.

I waste away by every pound.

I feel the heartbeat in my chest … pound,

As I continue counting down.

107, the highest I’ve ever been

100, only one week in.

97, I messed up again.

93, I start to feel thin.

Week 4 begins and I am tired.

Tired of these thoughts wired always to food.

But I must continue because I’m too far to turn back now when I’m so close to the finish line,

Ana whispers in my ear..

I’ve deftly avoided death so far,

But I don’t know how far I’ll go before my heart decides to stop.

Misaligned rhythms of my heartbeat.

Matching misaligned thoughts

Mismatched memories.

I can’t remember the last time I was happy with me,

The true me,

Not this folded, pressed, and sewn up doll

Cloth made of crippling cries clinging to uncertainty

Sewn up with that sharp satisfaction of looking in the mirror dragging the thread of not eating.

Not a single taste should touch my sacred tongue.


It’s been years of the back and forth.

And, trust me, I’m doing my best to survive.