I stepped on the scale the other day.
It startled me in an unpleasant way.
What the number was, I'd rather not say.
Doesn't seem like you'd care anyway.

But it bothered me, and I know why.
Not the weight on my *** or thighs,
But the weary look inside my eyes,
As I gaze in the mirror, pinch my flesh, and sigh.

Effortlessly, I lose my appetite,
Without putting up any kind of fight.
My insides grumpled through the night,
But I refuse to take a bite.

My therapist thinks it's about control,
Something deeper within my soul.
The hunger makes me feel more whole,
But it slowly begins to take its toll.

I learned to enjoy the weakening pain,
Feeling the blood slow in my veins,
Any movement, a forceful strain,
But it makes sense inside my brain.

Feeling cold in a warm room is a success,
But I am not quite able to express,
Why I keep coming back, why I regress,
When I feel the slightest stress.