It’s the finger down the throat again.
It’s the horror; it’s the pain.
It’s the gut-wrenching feeling
of being trapped in your own brain.

It’s the battle raging on
Inside your battered heart
Of wanting to get better
Or to tear yourself apart.

You can’t call on anyone;
Nobody understands.
The hate and guilt and loneliness
From purging to be thin.

Warped figures formed by thine own eyes,
Displayed inside the glass,
The mirror tells a story,
You cannot learn in class.

The life of a recovering bulimic
Is no easy fight.
Especially when the habit,
Has been practiced half a life.

You slip, you fall, you recover;
The cycle still repeats,
Though less and less they happen
As you get back on your feet.

I’m here to share a message
To those who’ve felt this too.
To those who feel unbeautiful,
This message is for you:

You were made for a purpose,
Only you can fulfil.
Stop the fingers down the throat.
Stop making yourself ill.

You’re beautiful and full of worth
And you are loved by many more.
Don’t throw yourself away;
Open your wings and soar.