When you look into the mirror
and you are unsatisfied with the fact that you cannot see your ribs,
unhappy with your lack of a thigh gap,
ashamed of your extra (ugly) curves,
missing your hipbones,
wishing for dainty, feminine hands,
wanting the stretch marks to vanish,
praying to feel beautiful.

When you regret eating, but also regret not eating,
you're kindof ******.
When you only get relief after throwing up the contents
of how little you ate.
When you feel like everyone is watching you eat,
terrified, in fear that if they stop you,
you'll eat them too.

When you hate the way your thighs jiggle excessively with every step you take,
how they accommodate the size of Russia when you sit down,
how your love handles aren't so lovely,
how you can't wear clothes that flatter you appropriately to others
because you feel so disgusting in your very own skin,
and you wish for nothing more than to be skinny enough to be loved...

When you regret the scars you claim to love sometimes
because you can't wear those cute short-shorts,
like you would anyway,
but it just eliminates the option.
How you are terrified to wear bathing suits because of your deep pink and purple scars, even the faded white ones,
and how they litter your thighs, and aimlessly hope
that someone could find a way to love them, if possible.

When you can't wear short sleeves or a sleeveless shirt,
because of the dark pink scars scattered across your arms,
the burns,
the cuts,
the deep ****-looking scars,
when you hate yourself for making them,
but still eventually accepting them, only to
end up hating them, again and again.

When you feel like a stranger in your own home,
because your step mom doesn't want her daughter to see your scars,
and yells at you for every choice you make,
and your dad doesn't even ******* defend you.

This isn't healthy, but you can't do a single ******* thing to change it.