Bulimia Curse

I have a confession to make,
Yet I don’t know how to make it.
My appearance may have fooled you,
But it’s not easy to fake it.

I have a sort of problem,
It’s not easy to confess.
You see, I have bulimia,
And that is not a jest.

I do not like how much I weigh,
And so I try to diet.
But then I end up binging.
I don’t recommend you try it.

And then I feel all fat again.
How do I make this end?
I end up purging all of it out,
My mind, you see, cannot mend.

I feel sick inside when I see myself.
My God, is that really me?
I look so unhealthy, so sickly.
How on earth can this be?

It’s not like what I’m doing is dangerous, is it?
People are sick all the time.
But why does this make me look so bad?
Is bulimia some kind of crime?

My teeth look utterly hideous,
And my heart is feeling the strain.
I cannot do much of anything anymore.
Does this equal your disdain?

What must everyone think of me?
They must think of me in disgust.
This fat pig whose every diet,
Failed as some kind of must.

Now I know something is wrong with me.
I can feel it in every bone.
I’m nervous and shaky, almost mentally ill,
For every symptom that I’ve shown.
Has bulimia really done this?
I’m a skeleton of what I used to be.
My spirit has faded, my smile has gone,
What is this curse doing to me?

Bulimia is my own little curse,
Can’t you see it for what it is?
I’m sickly, unhealthy, and all of the same,
What I’m lacking is what people will miss.

I may smile outwardly,
A silly grin of a clown.
But if you would look deeper, you’d find,
That on the inside, I frown.