I was sixteen years old when I effectively vomited for the first time. As my mother’s pasta and the words of a boy I thought loved me flooded my esophagus I grasped the cold sides of the toilet seat with sweaty palms and bitten down fingernails. I looked into the mirror as if my reflection had finally transformed into a wax figure I had been burning at for years and I knew it would never go back to its original form. I’d seen that look before, in girls wiping their lips in high school bathrooms, girls who wore baggy clothes and flinched when boys playfully poked at their stomachs, girls who put rocks in their pockets before being weighed at doctors’ appointments and covered up bruises over fragile bones with whatever makeup they could find in their mother’s drawer. I sit in health class as the teacher speaks of the dangers of eating disorders from a third person point of view and it seems as if the only sound anyone is hearing is the growling coming from my empty stomach. I stand up from a lunch table in the cafeteria and freeze at the words of a girl telling me I’ve gotten as skinny as my three month prematurely born best friend. I walk through the front door and immediately remove every piece of clothing that might weigh even an ounce and I step onto the scale with hopes of seeing my importance rise as the numbers fall but no one ever told me that I am worth so much more than 96 pounds.

I am nineteen years old and I am no longer drowned in a sea of panic when my father asks me what I've had to eat today. When my boyfriend glides his hands under my shirt and over the top of my waistline my head is not consumed by the thought that my stomach is not flat enough for his liking. I do not sit in class and think about the flesh of my thighs bulging from the holes in my jeans that a boy once told me looked like tumors under my skin.
Okay, there are days when the only one who knows I am my own worst enemy is the mirror and okay, I still politely insist that the lights be turned off before I let him touch me with satin fingertips and okay, I still have a way of instantaneously counting calories in my head the same way I counted on myself to stop years ago but
I only weighed myself once today.

This isn't a date in history
This isn't a place of residence
18
92

The chart is engraved into my memory
Preventing my transition into elephant
18
92

The yellow muck underneath my skin
The index on which my life depends
18
92

The ribs I traced during sleepless nights
The weight at which I shriveled up inside
18
92

The numbers I crossed my heart with
The numbers I wished to die with
18
92

The moments when I drowned myself
Flamed the courage to help myself

I.
See these marks on my fingers?
They're not from my bark
They're my bite's fight with dinner

II.
These cuts and bruises
Have calcium to blame
And the food my body refuses

III.
The scars on my middle and pointer
Remind me of the acid burn
That made my image so much lovelier

I wish I was
something more than
what I dare to call
myself
because this body was
never hurt this much
because this mind was
never haunted this much
because those nightmares
once stopped when I
woke up
but since when I can recall
they last longer than
twenty four hours
and this is insane
am I this insane?
that doctor says I don't look that ill
the other says I should
go in the psych ward
the other says I'm in the control
while the other one says
the harm on my body means
I'm not the one in charge
any longer
am I insane yet?
I should call 911
but I'm afraid another doctor
will attempt to say what's
going on
inside myself
instead of asking me
what I'm feeling for real
or why these injuries are for
or why the empty stomach
keeps growling
won't you eat, my dear?
I say no
won't you take your meds, my dear?
I say why
won't you enjoy your life like a normal human being?
I ask why should I
since im in the border of sanity
way more on the side
of those ones
stuck between four walls
white bedsheets
and treated like kids
who forgot to take their medicines
at home
so now they need a special care
am I insane yet?
I wonder
but no one dares
to answer.

I read a vogue magazine once

I wanted to be more mature
I wanted to be a child again

I was bored of how I looked

I was called 'fat' once

I needed more control over myself
I needed someone to look after me

I wanted to deny myself a basic human need

I was in so much pain that I needed more

I lost weight and I couldn't stop
I found something I was good at

I ran out of ways to destroy myself

"You're a control freak" you yell at me.

When all I am looking for is some sort of consistency

you're right though, I only like what i can't control

maybe that's why I have good grade, but maybe that is also why I stick my fingers down my throat

i knew this girl
everyone was happy when she was born.
she had the most beautiful face

i knew this girl
she was three years old no care in the world
scarlet lips, and deep brown eyes
she had just gotten her glasses she was so proud

i knew this girl
she was six years old excited to grow up
pigtails, smarter than the other kids

i knew this girl
9 years old oldest in her grade
she already has acne the other kids pick on her but she could stand it

i knew this girl  
12 years old she thought she was fat
her acne was worse, she was coovered in blemishes.
she didn't want her glasses anymore.
she was an outcast, all the other kids just ignored her

i knew this girl
13 years old wounds all up her arms and legs
she has stopped eating her weight dropping to 100lbs

i knew this girl
14 years old she took off her glasses and put on darker clothes
she blends into the crowd
her arms and legs are covered with scars.
her weight is down to 75 lbs

i know this girl
15 years old.
fighting to recover, having relapses all the time
drinking, ******* around, fasting, then overeating.
her weight is back up to 94 but why should she keep it there?

i might get to know this girl
20 years old living a happy life
scars on her arms, but they're all faded by now.
her hands shake when she eats.
But this is only if she fights to get better.
if not she will never live to see this age.

Small
Sweet girl
All alone
Holding herself
Pinching the extra fat upon her thighs
Five miles. No meals. hope one day she'll learn
Beauty cant be
weighed by a
Lifeless
Scale

-ARI