Tuesday, Aug. 26, 2003/1:14 am

flick the switch

My throat is so sore, like it's been slashed with the sharp edge of glass.

The area around my mouth is red and irritable, a stinging clutter of raised blotches.

I can see my reflection in the window infront of me. I look so pale today, my blue eyes standing out against blanched dough.

The surface of my skin is so dry, sweep away the flaky covering, white dust and cracks webbing my body.

My mum keeps getting upset finding clumps of my hair everywhere. It has no strength at all. I noticed that my hightlights are still at the very top of my head because it isn't growing properly. They don't appear to have slipped even a centimetre.

I've been throwing up alot this weekend, seems i'm living a constant binge. Walking high speed along a treadmill. Going faster to fit into time. Food forced in then flooded out within an hour, because i need it, i need a focus, a hold. Leaving only the reminder in form of wrappers and boxed that are hidden from sight. The sickly acidic sting across my tongue.

Laying on my bed afterwards, thinking through fog, knowing that i have done it again. Sipping a drink, hoping it will calm the shaking. Swallowing an asprin or two, headache ever present. Falling asleep, falling through the net of consciousness, hoping to soothe the dizzy stars and flustered composure. Waking up, and dragging myself back to the fridge for another round. Gaze darting from one food option to another.

I squeeze my arm to feel the hard place beneath just to make sure it's still there. Run my finger over the lines of my collarbones, dipping into the small hollow bays that have been formed bellow my neck. But it just won't do. I can't embrace the soft areas, the sections of flesh i can gather between my fingers. I want it to turn to air from slight touch. Skrink to acceptable proportions. A slither of myself.

This shell i am contained within is so cold. Riddled with goose pimples, shivering violently, I draw a match down the wick of a candle and hold it to my face. It burns bright red, fiery intense red with firecracker orange. I have no rings at my door but the bell is muted anyway. Huddled in a slip of a sheet, barely trying to keep out the frost. I hum tunes, read novels and play games with death. On occasions i watch life through the window. Real, raw, exciting, but foreign life. Not just steps, but fields away from my world. A transparent screen seperates us, i do not belong there and i never will. Facinated by the gentle tinker of work and socialism.

I try to convince myself i don't need reality, not that reality, because i have my own. I don't need anyone else, i have this disorder, an arm chair to lean upon. Leading me into distant parellels where i am safe, and nobody can touch me.

They can't breathe near me,

or guess what i'm going to do next,

say in haste and stupidity.

Will anyone ever be able to understand me here? I am so, so different from my friends. I have different concerns, ambitions and aims. They do not have to ponder whether they will see there 17th birthdays.

I dance along the train tracks, and tiptoe through shooting ranges.

Nobody calling, nobody listening.

Theres much more under the makeup. That cannot be uncovered like silver from sand. Pretty pinks and purples masking fragile secrets.

Talking about movies and grades, laughing, gossiping. Focusing on what i will devour next, when i reuturn home, the welcoming shop fronts full of pastries or confectiory, enclosed in the futile state of black nothing. Missing sentence points, conversation humming in the backdrop of my concentration.

Flick the switch,

don't glance in my direction.

I'll just turn away.

My back awaiting arrows.

Can't stand the pain of pretending.