alimento mori

2.10.15

i.

The first time I ever really got on the Internet I was thirteen and making a Facebook account I spent all of sixth grade using to talk to a girl I never acknowledge in the halls.
Seventh grade was spent with One Direction fan fiction and I built worlds where I could live lavish and luxurious lives with cute boys who cared. (I never finished any of them about me, but I wrote my friend a story about how she fell in love with Louis and him her and now she's gone, gone, gone because you don't give out personal information over the Internet.)
For Christmas during eighth grade I got a laptop and I didn't have to worry about my dad yelling at me for using the computer too often because I had my own. I no longer had to binge-watch anime for hours on end on Fridays and Saturdays because I knew the password on my laptop.

ii.

I fell in love with pictures of girls with thin bodies on Tumblr, search on the app a-n-o-r-e-i-x-a to get past the customary "Are you okay?" message because I wanted to scream "no, no, I am not okay but I am trying to be."
Sixth and seventh grade I never ate lunch, and it was part of my picky eating and the fact that I thought I was overweight and my knowledge of losing weight was that you had to burn more than you ate. My doctor told me when I was eleven, "You'll be 160 pounds when you're sixteen," and I kept a scale all throughout seventh grade.
I will forever have scars on my arms and my thighs and my hips but I threw out my blades in April and now it's September and that scale was gone before seventh grade ended. I weigh myself at my grandparents, but it's not so bad anymore. I'm fifteen and hanging around 150 but I am still healthy, so fuck the idea that weight is the epitome of health.

iii.

Tumblr told me about people who were transgender and bisexual and gay and queer and I saw so many posts that berated cis people that I started to shove myself into boxes that were too small for my soul to fit into so I cut off parts.
Today I'm agender, asexual and biromantic but that will change by next year. It took two years to come to this point because I looked at myself in the mirror and hated my hips and my breasts but now I welcome both. And maybe I still hate my hips, but only because Arizona's super skinny jeans don't hug my calves the way they do my hips.
My brother is buying me a binder and I'm glad because this weekend I tried to bind with ace bandages because my Blurryface shirt felt like it was hugging my breasts too tightly but I didn't because I enjoy breathing just a little bit more.

iv.

This weekend I was looking for a safety pin and found a blade hidden under my jewelry box and I felt my stomach churn. Theirs is nothing worse than finding a vice you've given up ages ago.
There is blood on the skateboard I've yet to learn to ride because my anger is like lava pouring out of a volcano that rests beside a town and I break my knuckles to keep that lava in.
Today I read a story in English and my teacher asked, "Why are you in basic English?" And I had to tell her that I forgot to get my teacher's recommendation but really I was too scared to walk across the hall and ask for it.

v.

I've never paraded myself as perfected, instead I say slurs about myself and I'm learning to control my anger and my knuckles have healed over. I will always be lacking in confidence, but in English my story had the line, "She will maul the world and take what is hers," and maybe it will be ten years and I'll be in some corporate nine-to-five because I lack ambition, but maybe I'll remember that line and think of fifteen-year old me with stars in her eyes and I'll tell the woman in the cubicle next to me, "Fuck you, you asshole," and quit my job and try and become the author I've always wanted to be.