Sick.

Day by day, it’s the same old, same old. Everyday it’s the same routine. Truth is, you find comfort in the dullness. Truth is, you feel safe in the confines of these walls, of these bars, really.

Truth is, you’ve never felt so at home. But it’s not right and it’s not normal. You know you can’t stay here, you know you have to get well, you have to leave and be normal.
You have to be normal, whatever that is.

You’ve become very aware of all of the things around you, and those inside of you. You realize, all at once how stiff your backbone is. You know your legs can’t hold you.
You’re too heavy, your burden has become too much and you’re so, so sorry.

It’s quiet here, and you like that. It’s plain and white and aesthetically calming. You’ve learned a few things, like how simple of a need privacy really is. You know now what you want of life. You’re past the point of knowing what your stomach tastes like, you’re tired of thinking of caloric intake. You’re sick of being watched and of watching and of everything in-between.

You know what it’s like to be on both ends of this fight. You know what it is like to look in the mirror and see only disgust and fucking hatehatehate. You know that you have painted your insides with arsenic.

You don’t know how much you weigh.

You. Are. Okay. You. Are. Recovered.

You think.