How can I make this writing piece more poetic?

I am never good enough, no matter how I try. For a long time, I would wake up every morning, disappointed to be alive, to have to face another life as the fat, ugly, terrible person that I am. Death seemed to be the only viable option to end the pain of living. When it came down to it, I was tired, and ready to take a fistful of pills, and go to sleep forever, all I wanted was to feel nothing, to make the pain end. I ended up in a psychiatric hospital for suicidal ideation/attempts, self-mutilation, anxiety, compulsive behaviors and an eating disorder. I didn’t even want to save myself by going to the hospital; I just wanted to make my mother happy. Seeing my mother cry, and worry if this would be the last time she would see her daughter alive was greater punishment that the marks and letters I was carving into my skin with a razor blade. I used the physical pain from the burn of alcohol in open wounds to distract myself from the emotional feelings I was tired of dealing with. Though I never lashed out at others, I was ridiculously angry for the duration of most of the lows that I hit. I was angry at myself, for not being perfect, for worrying my parents, for things that weren’t even my fault. That anger translated into sadness, and cutting, besides shielding me from emotions I no longer wanted to deal with, it gave me yet another to direct my anger and aggression back towards myself. I hated myself for reaching a point where my calm, capable mother, the women who raised two infants with no help admitted that not even could protect me from myself. at a later time, she admitted one of her biggest fears being that should I manage to somehow render myself unconscious, she would be unable to save me, because I am too big for her to move. embarrassed that my obese, 123 pound frame could worry my mother so worried, I immediately downed 4 of the laxatives leftover from my younger sister’s colonoscopy. When I was admitted to the hospital, I had not kept any food down in over a week, another bi-product of the eating disorder I have kept hidden for so long. I never ate unless forced, and even when forced, I stuck a tooth brush down my throat to induce vomiting. Being the paranoid person that I am, I also took way too many laxatives to ensure that nothing even resembling food stayed in my body. It was, and still is a challenge to eat, both physically and mentally. I still am disgusted with myself when I am not hungry, but even more disgusted when I do what I want, because deep down, I know the pain and worry that I am causing the people that care about me. From consuming no food for so long, my body still sometimes panics, and rejects whatever I had attempted to eat if it is too much. Learning to love myself, to take care of myself has been an ongoing challenge, probably one that will still be a part of me years from now. Recognizing myself as a decent human, worthy of respect is going to be my life’s work. I understand that coming out of depression is a long road, and relapse is very possible, but I have learned, and grown as a person. I understand that I will make mistakes, and just because I get a B on a test doesn’t mean that I have wasted my parent’s time by existing just to fail them. There will always be reminders of where I came from, my worn down back molars, scars, and the word ‘failure’ carved into my abdomen. My ribs and hips will still stick out, and my esophagus will always be burnt, my body damaged from the nutrition I refused to consume. I am ashamed to let others see what I have done to myself. recently, I cried when shopping for a swimsuit, I began sobbing upon seeing the damage I had caused to my own body, and from the regret that I still looked fat, even with the sharpness of my exposed bone, unmasked by body fat. Maybe someday, I will be able to attend a family brunch, and not be embarrassed when I can’t eat anything. I will triumph, survive, and maybe someday, have the strength to say I’m pretty, and not be lying through my teeth.