Status: Being hastily written.
Sick.
Second.
It’s your last day here. You’re scared and you’re hurting.
They’ve weighed you, one last time. They’ve stripped you of your paper ball gown. They still won’t tell you those vile numbers. They won’t speak of it. Their lips pull together clothesline-tight.
They weigh you down with papers, with instructions. Rules set up like lines of coke, clean, crisp and ever so delicate. They leave darkness in their wake.
You are Okay. You are Alright. This doesn’t matter; you’ll be just fine outside of this cage. Nothing will change.
You know how to put one foot in front of the other. You know how to walk into the sunset and all of that other bullshit. You have learned how to lift a fork, weighed down with food, into your mouth. You have learned to be okay with it. You have made recovery posters. You have sewed blanket after blanket. You can cross-stitch an oven mitt. You can do anything. You do not have to starve. You do not have to give in.
These are the things you tell yourself as you walk out the door.
They’ve weighed you, one last time. They’ve stripped you of your paper ball gown. They still won’t tell you those vile numbers. They won’t speak of it. Their lips pull together clothesline-tight.
They weigh you down with papers, with instructions. Rules set up like lines of coke, clean, crisp and ever so delicate. They leave darkness in their wake.
You are Okay. You are Alright. This doesn’t matter; you’ll be just fine outside of this cage. Nothing will change.
You know how to put one foot in front of the other. You know how to walk into the sunset and all of that other bullshit. You have learned how to lift a fork, weighed down with food, into your mouth. You have learned to be okay with it. You have made recovery posters. You have sewed blanket after blanket. You can cross-stitch an oven mitt. You can do anything. You do not have to starve. You do not have to give in.
These are the things you tell yourself as you walk out the door.