You are beautiful.

Do not roll your eyes at me.
I see you.
You have never been kissed.
Boys treat you like you are contagious
and at night the popular girl's laughter
rings in your mind like an alarm clock—
you do not sleep very much.
You are nebulas and dark holes,
purple and black.
Do you not understand my metaphor?
I know what you do at night.
In the mirror you try to destroy
pieces of you that make people hate you.
That make you hate you.
Pinch and pull and twist
squeeze and squeeze,
squeeze your eyes shut—
bruises do not look better in the dark.

I know you.
So listen to me when I tell you:
Do not let years of your life
become a blur of starving
and binging starving and binging
starving and binging.
Do not form an addiction
to the growl of your stomach.
Do not wear your clothes
like an apology.
When your weight is the classroom guessing game,
when a hug from a boy is the result of a triple-dog dare,
when the girls draw pictures of you on bathroom stalls,
do not think of the peace that never waking up could bring.
Do not give up.

I am you
and I know what I am talking about.
Seven years, one eating disorder, and 50 pounds later,
I will always be in recovery
and you are still who I see in the mirror.
I am sorry I did not love you.

But trust me now,
this body is not your prison,
it is a home.
You are made of stardust
and sea water and of the
earth beneath you.
You are more than a number--
you are not as simple
as they want you to be.