Bleeding from my mouth is how i explain it,
For the cause that my stupid jeans wont fit.
I look in the mirror and see the giant,
I step on the scale, and feel unreliant.
You wouldnt understand just how i feel,
The pudgy fingers and toes seem so unreal.
The porcelin bowl is my only cure,
of the ridicule lies for this i am sure.
These things you call sports are my cryptonite,
and exercising my muscles my biggest fright.
My mouth acoustom to the terrible taste,
For it is far better than the jokes i will face.
My finger is my throats honored guest,
And afterwards it will feel at its best.
And why would i choose THIS way you ask?
Its nice to feel food, even if it wont last.
Imagine this: never goining out to eat,
Obesity is an impossible battle to beat.
Im green at all the girls with clothes on tight,
Just to be skinny, i try, i try with all my might.
Twenty and never even one little kiss,
Ive never been closer than 100 on a guys list.
I really dont mind it, so believe me now,
The title of the thing i love so much, bulimia.

***i am not bulimic, i just had the urge to write a poem on it, to show what
it might look like from another view. DONT TRY IT! And if you are, please
find help.***
 
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