I woke up one day. I looked at myself. I started bawling on the spot. I hated every inch of myself. I HAD to do something... immediately. There was nothing I could do to change the way I looked in five seconds though.
Oh wait... yeah. There is.
I held the menacing point of a safety pin in my fingers, and instantly dug into my hip in a perfect figure eight. I don't know what it stood for... either the amount of weight I had gained since my lowest weight... or the infinite pain of anorexia.
I didn't stop at my hips. I scratched my stomach, my thighs, my arms, my wrists... everything that needed to change. I needed to FEEL the change.
And then my hands threw themselves into the air and collided with my jiggling, repulsive figure again and again, hitting and destroying and punishing everything they could.
I screamed. I cried. I collapsed into my bed and drowned in the puddles of tears I made on the sheets. I was not leaving the house that day. I would not do anything but hold myself captive in my own body. I would not shove lard down my throat. I couldn't. I didn't deserve it.
This is not love. This is pain. These are not goals.... these numbers are drugs. This life is not a fairy tale.. it is the bruises on your body, the scars on your wrists, the valleys on your cheeks cut from the rivers of your tears. Is there a point to life if happiness will never be found?
