The cold handles of the kitchen cabinets dig into her thinly covered back.  Sobs emerge from her unnaturally cold, tired body.  
Yawns interrupt her cries for understanding, as she is unable to deal with the extreme exhaustion.  
Why her?  
Why has she allowed the drive for perfection to infiltrate her vessel?  Why did she give into society’s insecure perception of beauty, instead of building her own self confidence and decisions about appearance herself?
Her inability to cope with a growing, changing body.  
That’s what drove her to insanity and perfection in food intake.

Now she sits on the kitchen floor, pondering her downfall.  
The veins clearly visible in her hands.  
Her hands creepily thin.  
She can feel it all over her body, the thin layer of protection she has.  She’s horribly ashamed of the way she looks.  
She knows she’s too thin, but struggles to conquer her disordered thinking patterns and perfectionistic thoughts she has carried for so long about food.  
All the hate she harboured for her “fat” body, has transferred to her thin body.  
She’s ashamed beyond belief of the way she looks.  
She doesn’t want to be seen in a bathing suit.  
She still refuses to look into a mirror.  
She let something as simple and insignificant as food take over her life and shrivel her very being.  

She doesn’t even know who she is.