Dying to be Thin

I am not enough.

Nothing I do is ever:

Good enough,

Strong enough,

Smart enough,

Perfect enough,

To ever even matter at all.

Nothing about me is special.

Nothing about me is worth anything.

I slip through people’s minds,

Through their lives,

Without leaving an impression.

And if,

On the rare chance I happen to stick,

It’s never because I am good,

Or because I am strong,

Or because I am smart,

Or because I am perfect.

It is because I’m a slut,

Or a bitch,

Or crazy,

Or just a complete and total fuck up.

And soon enough,

I drift from their mind as well.

I have nothing,

Absolutely nothing,

To offer this world.

All I have is my weight.

That’s it.

That number is all that keeps me going.

It is the only thing that keeps me breathing,

The only thing,

That keeps me sane.

It tells me exactly how much I matter.

Exactly how,

Good,

Strong,

Smart,

Perfect

I could be.

It’s simple math really.

The less I weigh,

The better I become,

And the more I start to be enough.

Enough to actually matter,

Enough to actually be,

Good,

Strong,

Smart,

Perfect.

Just enough.

And so I push.

I push myself to eat less.

I push myself to run faster.

I push myself to do one more mile,

One more push up,

One more sit-up,

Just lift that weight one more time.

Ana my cheerleader,

Ana my mentor,

Ana my love.

Together,

We push.

And we will never stop.

Not until I’m enough.

Good enough,

Strong enough,

Smart enough,

Perfect enough.

To actually matter.

But maybe,

Someone will see,

And maybe,

They’ll say something.

Before it’s too late.

Maybe someone will fix me,

Once and for all,

Before that number,

The number that will determine if I am,

Good enough,

Strong enough,

Smart enough,

Perfect enough,

Fails to keep me alive.