We were in the car. I didn't know where we were going. I was scared. Was she going to get rid of me? I didn't know what was happening.
We pulled up to a place. Behavioral medicine center. Was she trying to get me help? I didn't want it. I refused it. But she didn't let me. Not one bit.
She told me I was going. Under any circumstances. I cried. I wanted to go home. I was fine. Nothing was wrong with me. Let me go home. Please.
YOU ARE READING
Proana
PoetryA story about a girl who found out about ana through social media and became addicted. (kind based off me)