You hate it.
The need to size your waist.
The newly transparent skin upon your glowing, tired, face.
The need to read labels,
completely avoid tables,
and the need to never stand in place.
You hate it,
So you tell yourself you're only sick.
Your sour tongue will stick
to the roof of your dry mouth,
when you tell your loved ones
"There's nothing to worry about."
Your thighs touch,
your skin hard,
scarred,
from your waist down,
barred,
from any eyes to see.
He'll say pale faced in a plea,
"Why cant you just learn you're absolutely beautiful to me?"
And you'll say,
Constantly, every day,
"I want to,"
but you can't, how can you possibly believe that you're something you've almost died to be?
