Letters I'll Never Send

Dear ED

I would like to think that people aren't the same as me,

that people can be different and are capable of change.

but every morning the mirror proves me wrong.

those that claim to have healed from their traumas: lie.

some things you can't heal from.

like me, they push these emotions and nightmares to the bottom of their stomach, 

hoping it wont make them sick.

the raw itch in the back of their throat is always there,

and if the wrong person sits down to dinner, or the food is cold like the hands that hurt them

they'll rush for the bathroom, bringing all the sequestered remembrances to the surface. 

all that remains is skin and bone from every time they tried to purge away the pain

our hurt leaves behind empty stomachs and sunken eyes

they cannot convince me that they are healed

our reflection never lies