Featured Poet - Sally Mills

WEIGH IN 2

I could barely lift my gaunt hollow thighs,

so kept my feet fixed astride, poised and proud,

the lowest weight ever, I’d hit a high, 

I gained some wriggle room, I was allowed

to dream, negotiate and park the guilt 

that followed me everywhere, for today.

But I lived in fear that the scales would tilt

against me tomorrow, if I strayed

from the routine, the pattern, and took off

the straight jacket, for just one single day,

but was there a risk I’d ever be lost,

I knew deep inside what ED would say,

no newfound freedom or simple escape,

misguided, threatened I lived each mistake.



FOOD NOISE

After Ian Harker

All that you need to do is eat the food,

the food that arrives through the letterbox,

the food that lingers at every bus stop,

at each shop door it clings to your taste buds,

and slaps your face every corner you turn,

it burns a hole in you at each cashpoint.

The food that waits patiently at your home,

that tumbles out of the cupboards and fridge,

you try to scroll past the food, block the ads,

and not feel bad when others eat the food,

the food grows through the soil, hangs on the fence,

you ignore the food at your health’s expense,

it’s eating the food your scared of the most,

but it’s needing the food worries you more.

CROSSROADS

How I loathed menus that boast calories,

that coax the calculator in my head,

to grasp for figures to punish me with.

It’s been starved for over eighteen months now,

but it waits powered up for me to lapse, 

and lurks ready to load me with regret.

At the crossroads where I can choose to learn

what it will cost to earn my next mouthful,

to wake the mathematician I lost

my life to, I’m prepared to take a bet.

My naked eyes, can’t chance even a glimpse,

I wince and blur out the traffic lights,

desperate to get to the other side,

I muster strength to survive the impact.

RED SHOES

Became a crime to eat carbohydrates,

to hydrate before stepping on the scales,

each chocolate chip measured on a spoon,

a crumb of cake added to plain yoghurt,

a kiss of honey on dried soya beans,

the mere taste of sweetness, you missed and craved.

A tuna steak, lean and boiled, to sit

alongside a mountain of salad leaves,

tinned anchovies, oil removed and counted,

a salmon fillet, its foil-like skin left,

raw veg deftly cut on a mandolin,

so thin it curled like shavings of wood.

Why make the lost little girl wear a hood,

at the cost of the desire to be thin.

A meal deal with caramel iced coffee,

a pack of four real butter Eccles cakes,

millionaire shortbread, a bottle of coke,

jam strawberry red, with a home baked scone,

a chocolate cake at the village fete,

a chip you nicked off your partner’s plate,

fish sushi with seaweed and sticky rice,

enticed by a small slither of cheddar,

a crumble of stilton, with diced mango,

thin sliced oak smoked salmon with cottage cheese,

yoghurt coated cranberries and mixed nuts,

thick cut bacon with liver in a stew.

Look at the picture of the little girl

in the new red shoes - what would she choose?

LEARN TO LOVE YOURSELF

Think back to that wee girl in the white frock,

with golden curls sitting on Grandad’s lawn,

she had just turned one, she’d be shocked now

if she thought that you would feel so alone,

and see how you’ve fallen out of love, 

but above all else how you’ve lost your way,

and each day how you refuse to look at

the little red shoes in the photograph,

the laugh in her eyes, the innocent smile,

for a while think back, delight in those times,

push the judge and the perfectionist out

to one side, that denies the girl in white,

and promise you will learn to love yourself,

before you give your love to someone else.



ABOUT THE POEMS: These poems explore the complexities of dealing with an eating disorder and its relationship to mental health. The poems deliver the emotional journey, highlighting the frustrations, the challenges, together with the solace that can be found in such adversity. The poems present the harsh reality of living with a controlling disease with precision, yet vulnerability. They use visceral imagery to express the struggles of a difficult relationship with food that stemmed from my teenage years, but did not monopolise my life until my late 40s.