I am dead.
I look at the mirror, and I don't see me.
I look at the plate, but I don't eat.
I struggle, push, and pull my way out of this hole.
I am alive.
I watch the girls weigh themselves and cry.
I watch them starve themselves and die.
That was me, but now it isn't.
Am I saved? Who saved me?
Was it an angel? Maybe.
Was it my friend? Probably.
Or was it me?
This is a recovery poem.