Dying to be Thin

118 pounds.

Every calorie not eaten,

Every mile run,

Every meal skipped,

Every night spent,

With my head buried in my toilet.

It has lead to this.

118 pounds.

It can’t be true.

There is no possible way that this is real.

That scale has to be lying.

It has to be.

I can’t be 118 pounds.

If I’m 118 pounds,

Then I’m even more of a failure than I thought.

I’m even more worthless.

Believe it, honey.

The scale doesn’t lie.

You’re pathetic.

I can’t believe this.

All this torture,

It can’t leave me at 118 pounds.

No.

No.

NO!

THIS ISN’T POSSIBLE!

IT’S NOT POSSIBLE!

It is possible.

You’re a miserable excuse of a person.

I try,

So hard.

I listen to Ana.

I don’t eat.

No,

I run,

And puke,

And starve,

And cut,

And try,

So hard,

To be good.

To be perfect.

I don’t deserve this.

No.

I deserve to be perfect.

I deserve to be thin!

WHY?

Why me?

Why now?

Why not a few years ago,

When I was skinny,

And I could have used the weight.

Why not,

When people actually thought,

That I had an eating disorder.

Why me?

Why now?

I’m tired of this fattened girl.

I’m not her,

I can’t be her.

This broken,

Glued,

Wreck of a shell,

Of a mess of a person,

Can’t be me.

I have to be perfect,

And flawless,

And beautiful,

And thin.

I have to be better than this,

Better than 118 pounds,

Of dirty fat.

I have to be better,

Or I won’t survive.