Today, I ate a half an apple.
Today, I stared at myself in the mirror, saw the jutting of my hips, the mountains of my shoulder blades, and the hills and valleys my ribs made.
I saw
With my own eyes
My body
And I hated.
I felt a hate that no person should feel,
Yet I did
Because
I’m fat.
My name is Ana, and I weigh ninety pounds.
My BMI is 14.3, and my hair is like thin straw.
My eyes,
They are bright blue, and they are framed by a chubby face with cheekbones that other girls would die to have.
My hands,
Have knuckles
Which erupt from my skin like…
Like…
And my mind,
I forget things and I forget to say things and I forget to remember things
Which are important.
But I want to be pretty.
Those fatsos, up to a hundred pounds, so flabby
So fat, and I remember
Being one of them,
Seeing how my very flesh
Hid the bones from sight
And I wanted to be pretty, but I couldn’t because I was fat.
I’m still fat.
My stomach is flat,
My feet touch, yet my thighs don’t,
My bones stick out like open doors and windows to my
Soul.
What am I?
I
Am the one you see before you,
I
Am the one who eats a half an apple every other day just so I can stay alive,
I
Am that girl who looks so pretty…
But no one wants me.
So I must not be pretty. I must be a mess,
A fat,
Hot,
Mess.
And all I can do is starve myself even further.
What made me this way?
It certainly wasn’t me.
No,
It was the pictures,
It was my mother, poking and prodding my skin,
Pointing out my flaws,
Planning my plastic surgery,
And letting me know
I
Am
Fat.
When will you understand,
That I just want to be pretty?
I want to be a super model on the cover of a magazine, and
I want to have men falling at my feet and
I want to have women dying to be just like me.
It’s the pictures…
I forget things that are important,
And I strain to remember them,
But I can’t
Because I’m dying
And I’m drawing out my
Sweet
Sweet
Suicide.
When will you understand that
Food
Doesn’t taste as good as
Thin feels?