PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

You don’t know the every tooth of a knife the way I do.

You don’t know the exact color of my blood.

You don’t know the feeling of cold steel against flesh like I do.

You don’t know the scars I’ve created on my body.

You don’t know the pain of food inside of my stomach.

You don’t know the release I feel when I throw up.

You don’t know the inside of the toilet as intimately as I do.

You don’t know the feeling of kneeling, crying in an empty bathroom, hearing your own echo coupled with coughs and roughness of the throat, the way I do.

You don’t know I use 4 different toothpastes, 3 times a day and the dentist still questions my oral hygiene.

You don’t know the gross sensation of food “swimming” in your stomach.

You don’t know the roughness of my hands.

You don’t know my nails are brittle.

You don’t know I used to be able to sing like a bird.

You don’t know my skin used to be fair and clear.

You don’t know my hair used to be strong, smooth and beautiful.

You don’t know my eyes used to dance and my teeth used to be white as snow, without fillings.

You don’t know the mirror is my enemy, shouting out how ugly I am.

You don’t know my body is weak and sore.

You don’t know my knees are so used to kneeling, instead of carrying me from one place to another, that now they hurt.

You don’t know I feel control when I really have none.

You don’t know what it’s like to crave vomit coming up into my corroded throat instead of craving the taste of something sweet.

You don’t know why and you don’t understand how the knife comforts me.

You don’t know what it’s like to be a Christian, loving God, and a human hating myself for everything.

You don’t know what it’s like not being able to hand this power over to God.

You don’t know how many times I’ve screamed inside of my weak heart for God to take this away, and then turned around and begged Him not to.

You don’t know how many times I’ve thanked God after throwing up, when I should have been repenting because of it.

You don’t know what it’s like to vomit up blood so often and be afraid to ask a doctor to help me.

You don’t know what it’s like to call out for help, and then be too scared to take it.

You don’t know I can’t take a compliment for what it is.

You don’t know I’m ugly.

You don’t know why I think I’m ugly and you don’t understand that I can’t think I’m beautiful.

You don’t know I look in the mirror hoping it will tell me I’m pretty. You just think I look in it because I’m proud of what I see. You’re wrong. I beg and fight with it everyday to tell me I’m beautiful.

You don’t know what it’s like not to see anything beautiful in the one thing God created that I should think is beautiful.

You don’t know the shame.

You don’t know the guilt.

You don’t know I can’t eat in front of people without watching them stare at me in my mind.

You don’t know I have to wear long sleeves and pants when it’s hot because the scars I’ve created are too noticeable to explain.

You don’t know I don’t have energy to pray.

You don’t know I’m too ashamed to pray.

You don’t know I love God.

You don’t know I wish I could just hand it all to Him.

You don’t know the tears I cry because I’m so sorry, God, for everything.

You don’t know how many times I have tried to explain this.

You don’t know my mother can’t help me.

You don’t know I’m too weak to help myself.

You don’t know I’m in too deep.

You don’t know I can’t just stop.

You don’t know that it takes too much.

You don’t know why I throw up.

You don’t know why I cut.

You don’t know why I cry.

You don’t know I’m killing myself little by little.

You don’t know I’m scared.

You don’t know I hate myself for what I’ve done.

You don’t know I secretly have a death wish, but I’m crying out for God’s saving grace to empower me.

You don’t know I yearn for love.

You don’t know I can’t imagine someone, a man, loving me for me and not for sex, loving me the way a man should love a woman.

You don’t know I’ve already murdered myself in God’s eyes because of the hate I have in my heart toward me.

You don’t know I want to revive myself.

You don’t know Jesus loves me and I don’t know how or why.

You don’t know I have ambitions that I could reach out and touch but I can’t grasp them.

You don’t know the knife.

You don’t know the smell of toilet water, or the way it feels splashing in your face everyday.

You don’t know I messed up my testimony, and I don’t know how to make it right again.

You don’t know I love God with all my heart…I haven’t proven it to anyone.

You don’t know I’ve hurt my mother more than I thought I could or ever wanted to.

You don’t know I’m a true Christian, no matter how much I scream it out.

You don’t know this pain.

You say you do. But you don’t know.