(spoken wordy angsty teenagery type poem; a work in progress)

I just need a friend
someone to turn to,
but what's the point in a friend if that friend isn't you?
Yiu see, i've got my demons
but you've got yours too.

You've got problems with the scale and you hair smells stale from all the cigarettes you smoke to curb the cravings
anf your stomach growls, begs, pleads.
But no amount of water slakes your hunger and you drown.
In a sea of calories and self harm and self hate

So i won't turn to you when i need a mate because what kind of friend would i be if i removed my problems from me and forced them onto you,
and how could you cope, knowing that i'm a mess,
i digress.
Into a spacey state of beta-blockers and brathing exercises, where the world slowly drifts by.
Where my hands still shake and my stomach still aches but at least i can play the part of okay.
But you.
Your mental war is personified, it eats you aive - literally.

and i@m sick of c'est la vie because if that's life i don't want to live.
I don't want to live in a world where you're rejected becasue your bmi reads green when your arms read red and your face reads dread every time you're expected to eat.

How do we fix this?
when i can't fix myself
when there seems to be no help
when the lines between realtiy and insanity is exceptionally thin,
much like your arms,
and your legs,
and your stomach,
and your unfriendly thighs.

There's fear in your eyes.

There's tears in mine,
naievity in your mothers,
ignorence in theirs.

Who cares?