More often than not I wake up in the morning wishing that I could shed this body like a second skin. If only it were that easy. As if I wear my shame like a jacket that I can unzip and toss over my chair when I get home. As if it were not a seed whose roots have grown deep in my skin, and crept their way into my veins. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve been ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, all I can seem to think of is how long it will take for her fingers to recoil. I wonder when she will realize that her hands don’t like the bumpy texture of my flesh. That my skin doesn’t hug my bones quite like it should. That I’ve got curves in all the wrong places. I wonder how long it will take for her to see me the way that I see myself. I know that I’m sick. It’s a disease without a cure. No matter how much you refuse to eat, it will always eat away at you. There is no running from this. You must lie down. And as she kisses your neck and reaches for your thigh, pull her closer. Let her know you trust her. Let her trace your bumpy flesh like hills and valleys, let her wander. She touches me so gently, in every place I’ve ben ashamed to claim as my own. And as she kisses my neck and reaches for my thigh, I let her.  Because this is how we learn to love ourselves. This is how we heal.