Whispers of the Soul

Anorexia

Threads of Control

In the quiet of the morning, the sun starts to rise,
I gather my threads, woven tight, a disguise,
Each calorie counted, a stitch in my seam,
Creating a tapestry built on a dream.

With every small measure, I bind and I weave,
A fabric of rules that I cling to, believe,
The weight of my choices, a pattern I trace,
In the depths of my hunger, I find my own space.

Thread by thread, I build my own wall,
Restricting, controlling, I answer the call,
The whispers of power, the pull of the strings,
A sense of achievement that false freedom brings.

I wrap myself tightly, cocooned in the cloth,
Feeling the strength in the choices I swath,
But beneath this façade, the fibers begin fray,
As I dance on the edge of a delicate sway.

With each meal I skip, the fabric grows thin,
A fortress of control that's collapsing within,
For the more that I bind, the more I am lost,
In a web of my making, I pay the cost.

The colors once vibrant now fade into gray,
As the threads I've woven begin to decay,
Each tug and each pull, a reminder of strife,
This illusion of power consuming my life.

And in the quiet hours, when shadows creep near,
I feel the unraveling, the weight of the fear,
The threads of control that I once held so tight,
Now slip through my fingers in the dark of the night.

As I watch the weave fray, the seams start to part,
I realize the struggle is tearing my heart,
What once felt like safety now tightens the noose,
In a search for perfection, I've lost my own truth.

But perhaps in the unraveling, there's hope to be found,
For the fabric of life is both fragile and sound,
To mend all the pieces, to stitch back the whole,
I must learn to embrace every part of my soul.

So, I gather the threads that are frayed and undone,
To weave a new story where healing's begun,
In the mess of the fabric, I'll find my own grace,
For true strength lies not in control, but in space.