She got a skeleton tattoo on her hand. She looks at it every day and to everyone else she’s a punk *** kid who has some trust issues and “it’s just a phase”, but she didn’t do it to be edgy or punk. To her it’s lost control and counting numbers. To her it’s countless nights tossing and turning as she felt her stomach rip itself apart, but the only tears were ones of joy because all that pain must mean it’s finally working. To her it’s skipped meals and growling. To her it’s apple slices and carrot sticks that replaced potato chips and cookies. To her it’s concave stomachs and ribs that you can count, and it’s so easy to count now. To her it’s hollow spaces and sharp curves. To her it’s every single flaw. To her it’s how quickly something can slip out of hand. To her it’s a reminder, a warning and to you it doesn’t matter, just another punk *** kid.