I am fifteen years old.
I used to believe in love.
and here is my story:
I fell in love with my best friend.
He didn't feel the same way.
I really wanted to think he did.
Maybe it's better that he didn't.
He didn't know.
(about anything)
He never saw my wrists or thighs.
Ripped to shreds by the razor sitting on my desk.
He noticed my weight loss though..
I'm on a new diet.
Lie.
He watched me purge.
Held my hair back.
I cried into his chest.
I was eleven.
He told his sister.
She understood even when I didn't.
It was called Bulimia.
The name intrigued me
She had a friend.
One that kept me from eating anything.
The name was so pretty Anorexia.
I called them Ana and Mia.
They talked to me.
Told me not to eat.
Not to think about binging.
They were always around.
In my head.
No one will love you when you look like that.
No one will even want to be near you.
You're disgusting.
You're fat.
You're stupid.
You're not good enough.
They became me.
Or did I become them?
I used to believe in love.
You used to.
