Dear Arfid Poem by Maximus D. Redwood

Dear ARFID,
I know one day you'll kill me.
How blunt of me to say, but—
But apparently it was not blunt enough
For the doctors who should treat me,
Yet they refuse to take me seriously.
It had to be written down as anorexia,
Your cousin, to be taken seriously
So I could drown myself in—
In medications that do not work,
But I keep on taking them anyways
Because what if they actually are?
The facts are laid out right in front of me
Like my future,
My dead, rotting body,
All in front of me.
My weight is falling,
My whole hand can fit around my wrist.
My pinkie can touch my thumb like—
Like death holding my hand.
Dear ARFID,
You're not taken as seriously as your cousins
Anorexia or Bulimia, but you're killing me all the same!
I'm deficient in vitamins and the—
The appetite I need!
Eating is a chore, something I do not find joy in.
I've tried so hard to enjoy it.
I've tried so hard to enjoy smelling the food,
Seeing the food,
Putting it on a plate,
Chewing it,
Swallowing it,
Taking more and more bites,
But after every step I just want to stop!
Dear ARFID,
You've ruined my life.
The dark circles under my eyes,
The hair that falls out,
The veins clearly showing under my skin,
The sicknesses I catch so easily,
The bruises that I easily get, like—
Like colorful splotches of paint.
I've always wanted to be a painter.
I've always wanted to wake up and
Make beautiful things out of nothing but—
But, I wake up thinking of the ugly side of things,
Like how you'll just kill me.
Dear ARFID,
You're winning.
I am so close.
I am so close to giving up.
Instead of being the painter I've—
I've always wanted to be, I've become
A sculptor.
I am also the sculpture, carving away at—
At myself until I get too thin.
Until I fall apart.
Letting myself fall apart is so tempting.
At least then, I won't feel the pain anymore.
Dear ARFID,
I know one day you'll kill me and—
And I hate you for that.