I want to write about this, because it still hurts.
Maybe it shouldn’t.
Regardless, it does.
Because I am ready to let this voice go, this evil in my mind,
But then I see her figure, skinny-minny, and I try to
Forget about all the pain and heartache,
And instead remember the control, the discipline,
And how it felt to feel lovable.
I do not look like her,
And I am still grieving the possibility
Of ever looking like her.
But I can’t be tortured anymore.
I can’t keep being the torturer, either.
I see her prance around, delicate and lightweight. .
And talk about how she wouldn’t fit into her high school prom dress,
She’s no longer a size 6,
And it hurts.
Because I am.
It won’t hurt much longer, though.
I am getting stronger, still,
Even when my weakness shines through at the sight
Of her sharp collarbones, her
Boyfriend calling her pretty,
her effortlessly getting on a pair of jeans.
I am getting stronger, and maybe not because I want to,
But because I have to.
If I ever want to be anything other than beautiful,
its hard to let go, but its necessary.